Renaissance
by Marzipan77
Summary: Set just before and during Fallen. A man appears among the ruins of Vis Uban with no memory. This is his journey from Arrom to Daniel Jackson, a journey of the mind, the memory, and the spirit that will take him from A to Z.
1. Chapter 1

Renaissance

by marzipan77

GEN

SG-1

Rated: T+ for language and memories of violence

A series of fics beginning at Daniel's descent back to Earth from the Ascended Plane. Chapter by chapter, these fics, about 1000 words each, beginning with "A", will explore Daniel's attempt to regain his memories, his mortal existence, and his place within the SGC and on SG-1.

Warnings: Angst/Emotional Whump/Memories of Death

Written for the Alphabet Challenge on the Stargate Drabbles List.

Prelude

She blazed, fury and compassion brightening around her into an impenetrable shield of protection. He lay beside her, unmoving, unaware, his presence dimmed, his brilliance caged by the Others.

"He must be punished."

"No. He did nothing," Oma Desala projected, strong, sincere.

"Only because you prevented him."

"The failing was mine," she insisted.

A blinding wave of silence buffeted against her but Oma allowed it to pass over and through her and stood, untouched, her charge safe at her side. The presence of the Others diminished, but she sensed their unending vigilance, their concrete accord against her.

She would not waver. She had not erred, offering this one Ascension. His soul pulsed; it glowed and flashed amidst the congealed darkness of humanity. But the ties that she had thought severed at his death had drawn him back again and again to those he'd left behind. And his sadness, even as he reveled at a universe opened before his questing mind, defeated her guidance.

Oma had cleansed his psyche, had rekindled his physical body from the ether when she sensed a separate presence lingering nearby – so young, so very young, and yet his light was fueled by such love and loyalty. "He has chosen," she whispered, soundless.

"My brother." The unuttered words rode the gleaming strands of devotion towards her. "So empty."

"It was his decision to return so."

A wordless grief expanded to fill the cosmos.

She enfolded the young one with tendrils of support.

"And yet - _he blazes_."

Renaissance: (n) rebirth


	2. A is for Arrom

"A is for Arrom"

By marzipan77

SG-1

GEN

Set just as Fallen begins.

Summary: Being: (n) Existence; life; essence.

Feedback: Always, always gives me a warm feeling.

The blue robes fell heavily against his legs as he walked, the echoes within his mind painting them with other colors – black, tan, green – and he somehow knew they meant to hide him in the darkness, within forests, against blowing sands. Other textures rubbed against his skin – smooth, tough, hugging each leg, each arm, in a way that robes couldn't – didn't. The images flashed dizzily through his mind: feeling the cloth beneath his fingers, sharp edges of broken glass tearing at it, leaving it in shreds against blistering skin, a thin sleeve between his hand and a sickening heat, burning… clawing at him… His breathing stuttered in his chest – blood clogging, skin oozing – until he felt his body spreading, thinning, undoing itself into the air around him and he forced his fingers to clutch at the brittle branches near his face. Eyes closed, the rough bark under his fingers, the sharp scent of leaves crushing, pebbles scuffing beneath his feet, the tang of his own sweat – these pulled him back together, reminding him of this place, this body. Alive. Whole. He was real. He was…

Essendo… zijnd… sein…

Arrom. Naked One. Found beneath the lowering sky. He didn't know how long he'd lain here, tossed unregarded onto this plain, naked, cold, alone – and without any words to describe the sensations that had curled him into a ball and shook him in angry waves from head to foot. Loss. Failure. But, with Khordib's one question the words had flooded him, smothering, sparking along his skin, behind his eyes, filling the emptiness, stealing breath and making a heart pound that he now could name.

Varlik… etre… istnienie…

Arrom loosed his fingers from the bare tree and touched his face. There had been tears there, but no other outward sign to reveal his inward pain. Faces above him – pale, dotted with two dark eyes, a mouth, a nose – they'd seemed almost right, essentially familiar, triggering a wash of warmth that quickly edged towards fear. He'd lay, gasping, flashes of other eyes, faces both pale and dark beneath other skies had slashed at him, pummeled him, accused him. And Shamda – calm, unsurprised – had stilled the others' questions, handed him his outer robe and invited him to join them.

Yn bod… sendo… olemassaolo…

Arrom latched onto the man's quiet words. Story after story unfolded from the village leader as they'd crossed the plain, the men's pace slowing to match his own stumbling gate. The words trickled along his nerves, fell into the yawning pit within him. He'd wanted to grab onto them, as if they could hold his head above the darkness that sucked at him, darkness that writhed and curdled with horrors, fears, hopes left bloody, and lives broken. He'd found his hand was gripping the elder's sleeve, tugging at it like a child when one story would finish, silently urging him on.

Siendo… res…

Arrom stood still now, alone on the plain, the branches creaking in the chill breeze, dead leaves stirring into movement before they rested again against the hardening ground, bird calls receding towards the south. Winter had come. And, with it, with the morning frost and shortening days Arrom had turned that clutching darkness to stone.

Arrom felt the tight muscles across his back, the lines deepening on his forehead. The villagers welcomed him kindly, clothed him, fed him, and yet he knew his silences and sorrow had driven them away. He wanted – an unexpected sob thrust itself from his throat – he wanted… but touching their lives was wrong, and he'd shied away from any attempts at closeness, avoiding gentle hands of comfort, smiled greetings, gestures of friendship, knowing, somehow, that he'd only bring them pain.

Today, he'd so easily eluded the usual gaggle of children who daily delighted in his ignorance of the simplest things.

… "… _like grinding yaphetta flour – have you ever tried to grind your own flour?" …_

… "_I'm trying to quit." …_

Sometimes the voices tore loose from their prison of stone and loss gripped him again, brought his hands up to shield his face, to hide from the shame and the guilt that tried to swallow him. No. Not again. Arrom hid in the dark and the silence, stripping away the memory of hands and voices that tried to entangle him, until the surge of memory passed, the voices quieted, and the emptiness grew up again like black, creeping ice.

Arrom. He was Arrom. It was enough. It had to be enough.

He set his face to the east, towards the lifting sun, hazy and dim among the clouds, its heat barely warming his skin. Arrom lowered his head and trudged on, senses now dulled to the crunching leaves and the furtive scurrying of small lives within the crackling brambles. Today he would walk, allowing time to carry him far from the worried eyes of Shamda and from the elder's care and concern. He shook his head wearily. Of late the elder's stories had become more pointed, demanding, his voice never wavering from its even cadence as he tried to push and prod a reaction from behind Arrom's careful control. Soft, earnest words had met him early this morning as he'd left his tent, and Arrom had fled. He'd been shaken, memories too near the surface after another night of restless sleep filled with the flooding streams of nearly forgotten voices struggling to break free, bringing with them the panic, the urge to run, to lose himself again among the ruins, among the ashes of those long dead where hands didn't rush to touch or eyes to accuse.

His foot scraped a thick stone and he stumbled and raised his eyes. No – not again. He clutched at anger, self-loathing, berating himself for his weakness as he stood, again, defenseless against the draw of this silent grey circle that rose above the horizon. Again his wandering had led here; again his icy control splintered as he stood in its shadow - this thing that tore at his dreams and spilled unwanted light into the darkness he'd wrapped around his soul. Even the words couldn't hide him.

Chappa'ai… Doorway to Heaven… Annulus… Gateway… Circle of Darkness… Circle of Woes.

"_What's that?"_

"_That's your Stargate, Jackson."_

He fell to his knees, hands pressed to his ears to block out the sounds that sent him spiraling into the darkness.

"No… I'm Arrom… Arrom," he cried.


	3. B is for Buried

"B is for Buried"

by marzipan77

GEN

SG-1

Summary: Daniel – Arrom – angst. His memories aren't all pie and cherries.

Arrom slowed his pace as he neared the ruins where the villagers had made their homes. He blinked the sweat from his eyes, rubbing the sleeve of his robe over his flushed face even as the panic urged him to run, to shout out their danger to the peaceful men and women, to gather up the laughing children in his long arms and force them into hiding, into safety. His heart pounded, his breath panting puffs of steam into the cold air as he turned from the calm scene and rested his back against a broken pillar. He closed his eyes tightly, willing the horrifying visions away, fighting to submerge them once again beneath the dark emptiness he'd cultivated for so long. But, although the screams faded in the whistle of the rising wind, and the smell of blood and pain transformed into the harsh fragrance of roasting meat in the cooking pits, a deeply sunken awareness of fear and loss remained.

When he could trust his limbs to a steady, deliberate pace, and trust his steely mask to conceal the choking grief that had erupted as he stood beneath the great grey ring of stone –

… "_Stargate… Stargate… Chappa'ai" …_

Arrom made his way between the groups of figures, nodding and smiling tightly to murmured greetings and gracefully avoiding the fleeting touch of hands. His eyes scanned wildly, trying to pick out the white-haired figure of the village elder among the blurred blues and browns of the robed shapes. He ducked beneath an arched lintel and turned to make his way down the stone steps and into the gathering of tents, his relief at the sound of the familiar droning voice setting his knees to trembling.

Shamda stood, hands clasped behind his back in his traditional pose, the words of his story falling easily from his lips as he spoke to a small group of young men who were stretching out hides to dry in the weak winter sun. Suddenly, the blue robes are transformed to tan, heat scorching, sand swirling, black braids falling down around the boys' determined faces, their hands busy with darker, more desperate efforts. Another stiff figure, beard grey, radiating dignity, addressing young men who were loathe to hear him.

… "_You will bring disaster to all of us, son." …_

Arrom set his jaw and shook his head, forcing the vision away.

"Shamda," his voice was louder, more abrupt than he intended. The surprised look on the elder's face made him pause. "I'm sorry," Arrom ducked his head, "sorry to interrupt, but I must speak with you."

One young man, Yaasur, flashed a quick smile. "It is all right, Arrom," he hurried to assure him, exchanging relieved glances with the others, "Really. It is fine."

The elder sighed, allowing a quelling glance to linger on Yaasur's face before he gestured an invitation for Arrom to walk beside him.

"You are troubled, my friend."

Arrom stuffed his cold, shaking hands into the sleeves of his robe. "Shamda – the stone ring out on the plain…"

The older man nodded calmly, his voice even. "Ah, yes. It has stood so as long as time remembers, Arrom. The stories tell us that, by its power, our people once traveled a different path, on a much longer journey than our feet can walk in these days. They called it Ya-eger Manget Makakal in the old tongue."

"The Path Between," Arrom replied, frowning, the words slipping from his mind between one heartbeat and the next.

Shamda hesitated for only a moment before continuing his winding journey through the tents. Finally, he shrugged. "It rests silently among the shattered stones – why does it cause you pain, my friend?"

"I don't –" Arrom swallowed. "I don't know." He heard the edge of fear in his own voice and reached out to snag the elder's sleeve, stepping quickly in front of him. "It's dangerous, Shamda," he stared into the storyteller's quiet regard, urging him with clutching hands and blazing eyes to hear him. To listen. To understand. "It brings death and horror, blood and pain."

The smell of seared flesh, the biting tang of blood on the air, the screams of the darkly-braided boys overwhelmed him and only Shamda's strong hands kept him upright.

"We have to bury it," he muttered, Shamda's soothing words barely grazing his skin as his gaze turned inward -

… "_A__s soon as we're gone I want you to close it, bury it, put a big, heavy cover stone over it—nothing good can ever come through this 'gate. Do you understand me?" …_

Fear – grief – a loss so deep, guilt so pure that it burned his soul to ashes. Arrom felt the tears slide down his face.

… "_you came through" …_

No. His fault. He'd let evil through the 'gate.

… " _you came through" …_

"No!" he shouted, denial tearing its way from his throat, drowning out the words in his mind. He opened his eyes to the elder's troubled face, to the concerned stares of the villagers now gathered around. "Shamda, please, we must bury the Stargate. Now."

The elder placed a hand on his shoulder. "You have remembered this, my friend?" His voice was gentle, warm, his kind gaze settling tenderly on Arrom's face. "Your memory returns?"

Muscles rigid, Arrom took in a deep lungful of air. "No." He kept his own gaze even, open, denying the power of the images, words, and sensations that gripped him. "No," he insisted firmly, "I just… I just know."

Shamda shooed away the watching villagers with a few flips of his fingers and then carefully led Arrom back to his tent. He stood, waiting, as Arrom's panic fled and his heartbeat calmed from its hammering rhythm. A few moments later, the elder straightened and placed both hands behind his back.

"I would tell you the story of the flightless bird, but, somehow," a smile curved the old man's mouth, "I think you have heard many, many more stories than even I can tell in your young life."

Arrom's gaze darted back and forth as words poured through his mind in a soft lilting voice that warmed him even as it left him empty again. "I'm not hiding my head in the sand, Shamda," he insisted as his mind grew silent.

"Are you not?" The question was quiet, but the elder's eyes glowed with a firm persistence. "How long will you be 'Arrom,' and stand naked among those who would be your brothers, your friends, who would clothe you with their memories?"

"I'm not-"

"You are," Shamda nodded. "Perhaps your fear of the stone ring is a fear of taking up your own journey. And, perhaps," he moved closer and set one hand against Arrom's cool cheek, "that is something that will not be buried so easily as you would wish."


	4. C is for Candlelight

"C is for Candlelight"

by marzipan77

GEN

SG-1

Summary: Arrom is struggling.

Feedback: So appreciated!

Arrom sat cross-legged on the deep piled rugs just within the low-hanging awning of his tent, never minding the occasional drop of freezing rain that fell against his face, his hands, gradually turning the blue of his robes to the color of the stormy sky. Now and then a breath of wind brought a lingering touch of warmth from the fire within the circle of huddled tents, still smoldering beneath the crude, wooden structure meant to shield it from the elements while its golden glow reminded the villagers of the sun that had not been seen for days.

The rain had begun a few hours after he'd spoken with Shamda about burying the 'gate, and Arrom had stood silently beneath the downpour, still aching with the pain of unrealized memories and unwanted scenes of death and destruction playing across his vision until the elder had pushed him into his tent with chidings and mutterings. And here he'd stayed. Now and then he'd watched as a family splashed across the open plaza, parents hurrying beneath burdens of baskets and bundles, children giggling just out of reach, until they plunged within the canvas walls of a friend or loved one. Sometimes voices rose above the hissing fall of icy pellets – laughter, songs, stories shared and solitude eased as each tent was turned into a small island of warmth among the freezing mud of winter.

His eyes no longer sought out the flickering embers of the central fire, nor the flashes of color that accompanied scurrying figures. Instead, Arrom simply watched the thin sheath of ice grow up around the few blades of grass just outside his tent that defied the deepening winter, counting the colors reflected in the dimming light of day, feeling that same icy shell spread within his soul. The deep green grass seemed preserved there beneath its glass-like covering, perfect, alive, waiting to be discovered. An artifact of the now bygone spring. Perhaps Arrom's own past was as well preserved.

A rustling sound and the brush of movement against his cheek startled him into blinking his tired eyes before lifting them to the hunched figures suddenly bustling within his tent.

"Tsk, tsk – even the stupidest beast knows enough to find shelter in a storm, Arrom." Shamda hooked one arm around his shoulders and drew him away from the drafty opening to his tent. Fingers plucked at the darkened fabric at the edge of his sleeves, along the hems of his vest-cloak, scattering thin ribbons of ice onto the damp rugs. The old man shook his head and clucked his tongue again. "Foolish!" he snapped, his voice somehow scolding and kind at the same time and Arrom gasped at remembered affection, dark eyes that held a depth of tenderness and exasperation, the furtive scent of rich spices and wheat and grain. The elder had tugged the damp covering from his shoulders before he noticed.

"Iranya," Shamda gestured towards the dark-haired woman who had settled a large, steaming pot on the low table deep within the tent. "Bring another cloak and shirt from the chest."

"Wait – I'm fine –" Arrom protested, trying to brush grasping hands from his clothing as his words echoed dully in the air.

"If you act as a child, my friend, then as a child will you be treated." Shamda took a half step backwards holding his hand out, demanding, until Arrom struggled out of his wet clothes and dropped them there. He stood, shivering, half-naked, beneath the pale, nearly mocking gaze.

Iranya – oldest daughter of the village elder and mother of three strong sons of her own, smiled and winked from behind the old man's back before filling Arrom's arms with warm, dry garments. Arrom couldn't help but grin in return, feeling a flush rise along his pale skin that he hurried to cover with the blue cloth.

"Now," Shamda clapped his hands. "I am hungry and my daughter's stew is best eaten hot." He made himself comfortable on one side of the table and spooned generous portions into two clay bowls.

Arrom turned to thank the woman for her kindness, but the look of sadness that shadowed her broad, plain face caught the words in his throat. She stood silently before him, a length of intricately woven fabric held between her callused hands. Arrom unconsciously bent forward as she reached up to loop the long scarf behind his neck once and again, finally smoothing the soft ends against his chest with light, timid movements. He pressed one hand against hers, flattening it gently against his shirt, and she looked up to smile again into his puzzled gaze.

"This belonged to my dear Rhandan," she offered simply. "He was taken from us two winters ago."

He felt his eyebrows rise. "A son?"

She nodded. "My firstborn," she added, slipping her hand from beneath his to poke one finger towards him in accusation. "He died of the winter fever. You," her finger stabbed at him again, "who came to us a gift dropped from the gods, are not to seek to follow him in your sadness."

… "… _my son …my son… I lost my son…" …_

Arrom knew the sheen in her eyes matched his own and he lowered his head, ashamed, ashamed to mean so much to these people. How… they shouldn't care… how could they care so much?

A feather-light touch through his hair and she was gone.

"I would listen to her," Shamda advised around a mouthful of stew.

The smell drew him towards the table and he took his place across from the old man, reaching for the brimming bowl. The warm silence grew around them as they ate and the darkness deepened. Arrom finished last, slowly wiping a piece of flatbread through the thin glaze of sauce that coated his bowl, unwilling to disturb the air that seemed thick with unspoken thoughts.

"Why do you sit here in the dark, my friend?"

A scraping sound – a spark - a flare of light caught and held to the wick of a soft, yellow candle, chasing the shadows back from the bright circle that now cradled the two men.

"Is that not better than stumbling in the darkness?"

… "_better to light a candle than curse the darkness" …_

Arrom frowned, unconvinced. "Is it?"

Shamda nodded, his eyes glittering in the simple glow. "Yes, my friend. The light of one candle is enough until the day dawns."

Arrom turned and let his gaze shift from the single flickering flame to the empty doorway and the darkness that crouched there. "The rain is letting up," he muttered, listening to the quiet, empty now of the relentless hiss and hammer of the icy drops.

The elder stood and shuffled towards the door. He took a deep breath of the evening air and blew it out. "The dawn will be bright, my friend."

Arrom swallowed against a lump in his throat. "Shamda," he breathed, his hands clenching against each other.

The grey-haired man drew his robes about him and peered up into the sky. "Ah. Even the brightest stars seem as nothing more than flickers of distant candlelight in a great field of darkness."

A cold shiver crept down Arrom's spine and he reached out one finger towards the candle's flame, holding it there for just a moment too long. He blinked at the sudden pain. "It still burns," he whispered.


	5. D is for Discovery

"D is for Discovery"

by marzipan77

GEN

SG-1

Summary: A discovery is made with the dawn.

Feedback: So appreciated!

The glistening spears of grass crackled and broke beneath his feet, loud in the stillness that arrived with the colored fingers of dawn reaching above the horizon. Clear skies, a warming breeze, the sight of sunlight dazzling the frozen ground into pinpoints of brightness, each piercing through one layer of the buffering darkness wrapped around his mind. Arrom let the light in, allowed the flickering images to come and go, each with a pang of sorrow, a jolt of hope, a silent shout of laughter, a wash of despair. He let them come, never reaching to grasp a single one as it slipped past.

The braying of the goats on the hillside seemed to keep time with his heavy steps and their dun colored bodies were transformed into a jogging phalanx of green-clad men, chanting nonsense as they passed. A brief flicker of red moved up and down, up and down, singing along a string until it slapped into a waiting hand poised above it. His own hands swept tiny grains of dust and dirt from the shallow lines of an ancient language, the delicate brush moving in and out so gently, tenderly caressing the stone as he would a lover's face. Soft black hair curled around his fingers, tightening until it became a baby's clutching grip, the same dark eyes smiling up at him from within his arms. A lingering ache of loss dropped his arms to fall heavily to his sides, empty.

… "_I'll see both of you again someday, right?" …_

… "_All roads lead eventually to the great path" …_

… "_Eventually" …_

There was an identity there, a name, flowing easily in and around the momentary scenes, the familiar scents and sounds, a place he filled within the ebb and flow of the lives around him. A space beside one, or across a jumbled table, or walking just a step behind. A child's place within circling arms. A young man struggling beneath a weight of books. And then, older, beneath a weight of grief, and all those spaces with his shape suddenly didn't fit any more.

His fault? Was the emptiness, the loneliness, the dark, echoing places in his soul that had nothing to do with a failure of memory his fault? The wind whispered that it was true. He lowered his head and allowed the scattered thoughts to seek their own path within him. His punishment, his penitence, judgment, perhaps, for a lifetime of mistakes. This much seemed clear.

… "_There is only one thing we can truly control" …_

…"_What's that?" …_

… "_Whether we are good or evil" …_

When the pain came again it was blistering, mauling his skin, pulling his breath from his body, pressing dead weight against his chest and Arrom stumbled, vision graying, blood draining so quickly he was surprised to see it had not pooled out onto the plain around him. He fell, knuckles bruising against the frozen ground, knees thudding, sharp pain lancing up through his hips, his belly, his chest. Blinking up into the winter sun he brushed his hands up and down beneath his wide sleeves, expecting open sores, seeping blood, tissues soggy as they wept out the essence of his life. Firm, warm skin, tingling in the chill air met his touch and he frowned.

The hours drifted past as he made his way back, silently, towards the village. The memories came more slowly, almost hesitantly now, as if afraid to throw him back to remembered agony of body or soul. He grimaced. Shamda was wrong - even the light of a candle was too bright, and the comforting darkness was a shield he didn't know how to discard. Perhaps with time the blaze would dim to a glow, the hurt would not be as sharp, the grief as raw. Perhaps.

Arrom swept aside a slender branch with one hand, exhaustion chilling his skin, shaking through his bones, drawing his face into a frown. One step, and then another. Food, his cot, the comfort of his tent – these would be enough for now.

The sharp crack of a broken branch brought his head up, rushed reaction through his nerves, tightened weary muscles to readiness in an instant. Men. Men wearing the green clothes of his memories rose to stand before him. Confusion sparked anger and Arrom narrowed his eyes. Real or merely phantoms from his dimly veiled past?

One man stepped forward – tall, hands allowing what Arrom knew to be a weapon to fall to his side, his eyes wide in shock, skin paling as his mouth worked open and closed. A whisper of sound drew his attention to a man behind, dark skinned, seemingly just as stunned to be met here, on the path.

"Doctor Jackson?"

… _a blue shirt, bald head reflecting harsh lighting, the words gentled with compassion … small, efficient hands holding tightly to his arm, demanding … a sneering face filling the words with contempt … a young man, crouching in fear beside a thick window, the words shouted in terror …_

"Doctor Jackson, is it – it's you, right? Are you all right?"

The first man moved closer and Arrom flinched backwards, avoiding the reaching hand. He closed his mind to the taunting images, the fear, the dread, the miasma of uncertainty.

"Stupid question, Foster," the man before him snapped, lowering his hand. "Doctor Jackson. Doctor Daniel Jackson," he urged, as if the repeated name would bring a sort of clarity to this confrontation. "Have you been here all along, sir?"

Arrom's frown grew deeper at the delighted wonder coloring the strange words. Why was this man so happy? What did he want?

"Arrom," he touched one hand to his chest.

Eyebrows rose on the man's blank face. "Arrom? You – you're Arrom?"

He nodded. "Yes."

"No way, sir," the dark skinned man's head shook back and forth. "That's Doctor Jackson."

"Okay, Marine, stand down," the first man warned, one hand raised. "You guys back off a minute."

Arrom watched closely as the three men walked off a few paces, throwing concerned glances over their shoulders. He remained still, guarded under their scrutiny and the fierce gaze of the man before him, betraying nothing of the wrenching of his gut, the sweat erupting beneath his suddenly thick and strangling robes.

"I'm Lieutenant Colonel Scott Reynolds, SG-3. From Earth. The SGC. Stargate Command." The man's face shone with hope, expectation.

"I am Arrom," he insisted.

"Arrom – okay. I guess it could be – but let me tell you, you look exactly like this friend of mine who, ah, got lost about a year ago." Reynolds shrugged. "I guess you've lived here all your life?"

The flicker of doubt must have been clear on his face, as the man surged with victory.

"You haven't, have you?"

"No – I –" Arrom swallowed his explanation. "I must return to the village." No. He shouldered past the man, anxious to be away, to find his tent, his cot, to close his eyes and embrace the darkness. One hand clutched at the soft cloth of the scarf still wrapped around his neck. He wasn't lost. Found. He'd been found.


	6. E is for Enough

"E is for Enough"

by marzipan77

GEN

SG-1

Summary: Familiar faces bring unwanted pain.

Feedback: Thank you!

The green clad man kept whatever pace Arrom set, staying right beside his shoulder and motioning for his men to precede the two along the pathway. Clenching his jaw, Arrom locked his gaze onto the uneven ground, shutting out the friendly inquiries, the casual comments, and the frequent glances that swept in his direction. He felt them watching, their gazes heavy and demanding against his skin, whipping the leaden, viscous swamp of memory within him until it belched up tortured images, words, flashes of pain, and the stench of death and sorrow. He concentrated on his steps, the feel of the cool breeze on his flushed face and the rough texture of the robes against his skin, the soft warmth of Iranya's scarf around his neck as the man droned on.

"I remember one time, Doctor Jackson and his team got these cool armbands from the Tok'ra – you know who the Tok'ra are, right? That Anise, whew, some outfits-"

… _a snarl of anger … "we are not Goa'uld" … a flash of heat, the smell of scorched flesh … "you okay, Danny?" … worry, fear, a blow to his chest and the tormented eyes of a friend over a limp figure falling lifeless to the floor … "Samantha" … _

Arrom stumbled and felt a firm grip on his arm. He jerked away, anger spiking, and turned, a harsh rebuke dying on his lips as the soldier pulled back.

"Sorry," the man offered, a smile twitching his lips upward. "You sure you're not Doctor Jackson?"

He frowned, mind swimming with the images the man's words inspired. A denial would not come. A moment later he tore his gaze from Reynolds' smiling face, lowered his head, and moved off down the pathway in the wake of the others.

Reynolds chuckled to himself and joined him, resuming his incessant narrative. "Anyway, Colonel O'Neill was driving everybody crazy – especially the General – General Hammond. He'd race through the hallways, pull pranks, eat twice his weight in the commissary – it was hilarious."

… _his hip smacked against the cold floor, carefully organized papers in heaps around him … a half-smile kindled both aggravation and comfort … anger … strength … "are you trying to kill me?" … the warmth of a hand on his cheek, arms holding him … "shut up, Daniel" … icy disdain …_

He barely kept his steps steady, holding himself tightly, his muscles rigid, against the warring emotions that poured through him. Arrom shook his head to try to dispel the roaring in his ears.

"And Teal'c, well, he scares the daylights out of just about everybody on a good day," the colonel continued.

… _dark eyes so deep, so grave, revealing a grief as profound as his own … a single muscle jumping within a clenched jaw … the tiny shift of a brow that defined the difference between scorn and approval … "false god – dead false god" … a spear of light … a woman's strangled cry …_

Arrom clenched his teeth against the searing bile that flooded his throat. Names, faces – they dropped like heavy stones into his gut, setting off waves of despair and fear that washed away his carefully built bulwarks, touching every hidden thought, every dark corner he was certain he'd cut off from the light.

His anger surged and he felt his skin flush darkly. All these could not be true memories – the images and words dredged up a mass of conflicting emotions – comfort, loss, trust, regret, wistful hope, and bitter disappointment. They clashed and fought, writhed and struck at one another like snakes – pale snakes within a crystal vase. He could not catch his breath.

Reynolds' droning voice suddenly cut through his churning thoughts. "And the Major – smart, tough, gave you – ah, Doctor Jackson – a run for his money-"

Arrom slammed shut his mental barriers and wheeled to face the startled soldier.

"Enough!"

Shock flared hotly in Reynolds' eyes as he lurched to a stop just inches away.

"I am not this Doctor Jackson," he growled, shaking, his harsh, gravelly voice alien to his own ears. His mouth was dry, his throat tight and thick with unshed tears of rage and shame.

"Sir?"

Arrom glanced up to see that the other men had turned, hands clutching at the weapons they carried.

Reynolds brought his hands up slowly, palms out, yet stood his ground, his eyes blank and his expression a careful mask. "Stand down," he stated unhurriedly, calm in the face of Arrom's fury. "We're fine, aren't we, Arrom?" He pronounced the name clearly.

Arrom's panting breath turned to steam in the cold space between them, creating a barrier as thin as his self-control. He narrowed his eyes, the ache in his head now throbbing in rhythm with his pounding heart.

"I do not know you," he hissed, one hand clutching the soft weave of Iranya's scarf to his chest, "I don't know anyone but the people of this land." He flung out the other hand, pointing towards the village. "These people took me in when I had nothing, when I could barely speak, and gave me a home and new memories to fill my empty mind." He buried his hand again beneath his robes when he noticed it trembling. "You don't know me," he whispered urgently.

"You… you lost your memory?"

Reynolds moved a step nearer and Arrom jerked backwards, lips pulled into a thin line. "I am going back to my village," he insisted, unwilling to play the man's game, to suffer any more casual stories, or too familiar touches, or these unwanted overtures of friendship. He blinked into the gathering gloom, the haze of anger blurring the familiar landscape to threatening shadows and jutting obstacles. The sun had disappeared behind the heavy clouds and the air felt colder, more bitter, leaching all warmth from his flesh, biting in his nose, his throat. The men before him turned to move off again.

"No problem, we're headed that way ourselves," the green clad man answered evenly.

Arrom nodded, waiting, eyes fixed on the vague horizon. Finally, Reynolds took a few steps down the pathway, leaving him to follow at his own pace.

The familiar broken pillars resembled jagged teeth, poised to devour him, as Arrom moved between them, lowering his head under the lintel of carved blocks that marked the edge of the main settlement. Reynolds' voice echoed from the tumbled rocks as he walked down the stairway. Arrom set his jaw and turned the corner, his mind stubbornly focused on the anger, the frustration that had claimed him out on the plain. Three figures moved towards him and he felt a hot stab of pain behind his eyes, nearly blinding him.

… _dark eyes and light, hovering over him… sharp words and words of affection … a searing light that was torn out of him, erupting from every pore, every nerve on fire, screaming as it left him spent, empty, alone … a thundered warning …_

"Daniel?"

No.


	7. F is for Fragile

"F is for Fragile"

by marzipan77

GEN

SG-1

Summary: His barriers are fragile, the edges sharp.

Dark eyes shadowed by the brim of a cap, guarded, stance deliberately casual even as he seemed drawn forward to meet him at the base of the steps. Blue ones filled with so many emotions - familiar disbelief, eager intensity, wonder – hurrying her steps ahead of the others. And last, a warm regard laced with deep sorrow shining from beneath an emblem of ancient slavery. Arrom felt his barriers crack but clung to the crumbling shards with bleeding fingers, his anger raising one hand to block a touch, to mumble his denial, still hot enough to carry him past the blurred faces, to deafen his ears to their pleading, to blind him to their demanding compassion.

He hurried through the shocked figures of the villagers, no longer calmly welcoming, easily holding out hands of friendship and warmth, but now turned to him in wariness and speculation, afraid of what their welcome had brought them. His steps took him past his own tent, wandering aimlessly, yearning for a place of peace, somewhere he could hide from nearly dear faces and newly distant ones. Familiar steps echoed his own and he knew that Shamda strode silently at his side, patient, waiting, unrushed by either events or emotions.

Arrom stopped and turned to him, searching, eyes burning with unshed tears.

"Shamda – who am I?"

A gnarled hand reached for him, comfortingly heavy on his shoulder. The elder's face was drawn, the fine lines around his eyes and mouth startlingly deep, his bright eyes revealing a burden of concern, a heaviness of spirit that Arrom had never noticed.

"My friend," he began, "are you ready for the answer to this question?"

He stared, fear flickering at the edges of his mind. "Shamda?" he whispered.

The hand guided him, stumbling, into the elder's tent, pushed him down onto a worn cushion, and brushed gently against his cheek before retreating. A heavy mug of tea appeared before him and he watched the old man's face carefully through the rising steam.

A tender smile touched the thin lips. "My friend, do not mistake a foolish man's words for the wisdom of the ages," he cautioned, one finger raised. "Your journey is your own, and, whether to take up the path again from where you wandered off, or to begin the journey anew," he bowed his head, "is your decision."

"I don't." Arrom swallowed the words that sprang to his tongue. "How – how can I go on when I can't see the path behind me?"

"'One's steps are guided by his past, even though he deny it,'" Shamda quoted.

Mind a whirl of images, Arrom felt the truth the elder uttered. "Whether or not I remember, my feet will still carry me along the path."

The old man nodded, his face grim, shuttered with resignation. "They will. You must choose whether to go blindly or to reach for those answers these new 'friends' offer you."

"They believe they know me." Arrom's cold fingers held stiffly to the warm bulk of the clay cup.

"And will you seek to know yourself as well?"

He raised his eyes to the tiny piece of sky visible through the folded fabric of the tent's roof. "'This above all: to thine own self be true.'"

Shamda tilted his head to one side. "There is a story in your eyes, Arrom."

Arrom allowed a rueful half-smile and lowered his gaze to his cup. "A very old story, told of a young man who is broken by loss and hopelessness and has lost his way along the path. He causes profound sorrow, deep, grievous wounds, and a glut of death. And, although they are not said to him, these words – an old man's words - resonate throughout the tale with the certainty of truth." He felt the speech tear through his being. "'This above all: to thine own self be true, and it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man.'"

"I must hear this story some day, my friend. But, for now, this choice you have been evading since your arrival seems to be forced upon you." Shamda reached out his hand and touched Arrom's shoulder once again. "Will you be Arrom, or will you be this Daniel? Which is it that you want?"

… "_Daniel? Did you want something?" …_

… _the musty smell of books, cracked bindings rough beneath his fingers as he packed them away … a figure suffused with light, a golden halo framing serene features and a knowing smile … "I couldn't leave it alone. I was the one who unburied the 'gate. What happened to her was my fault" … frozen figures gathered around a bed … "Why do you care?" … emptiness, pain, an ending … "I will have lost one of my greatest friends" … drowning, fighting for breath … "why do we wait to tell people how we really feel" … "admire you a little" … not enough, never enough … "your journey will continue as before" … unworthy, a rush of shame, of bile, guilt blinding him … "what if I don't want it to" … the light growing, rushing towards him, filling him, reaching into all the empty spaces as he fled …_

"Arrom?"

Shamda's voice pulled him back, drove the bitter taste away. He blinked into the caring eyes, his breath caught in his throat.

"'I believe that my entire life has been a failure.'" Truth. He felt it vibrate within his chest, searing with an unholy fire, tearing away memory and thought and connection to everyone and everything around him. Failure. The crackle of fire from the heavens. An entire world laid barren and desolate. "I'm being punished." The words came grunting from deep within his soul.

~o~

He didn't want to lie to this man – this man with the dark, shadowed eyes who struggled for words within his tent. Arrom had fled from Shamda, trying to outrace the certainty he'd discovered in the presence of the elder, his guilt equaled only by his rebellious fury. And it flared, reawakened by the glint of silver hair and the determined assault of this man on his newly reinforced defenses.

Arrom had tried to keep him out, to avoid the knowing gaze, the seemingly careless explanations, denying the immediate bond he'd felt even as the man muttered indifferent accounts of his life, his death. The air was stinging, cruel with change, with the snapping of bonds and the testing of his courage. And, sitting across from this man, Arrom found he could still fight, still resist, as if fighting against him was natural; the expected response.

'A friend of mine,' he'd said, the phrase thrown out as if meaningless. But Arrom read the substance there, the weight of those four small words pulled from between thin lips and, again, his walls crumbled.

… "_I'm not good at this" …_

… "_No, you're not" …_

And, suddenly, even if this were the end of all the things he knew, all the comfort of this village and the heady feeling of namelessness Arrom had drawn around himself like a thick blanket, he could not deny the sense of belonging those words had sparked within him, warming his frigid soul.


	8. G is for Goodbye

"G is for Good-bye"

by marzipan77

GEN

SG-1

Summary: Arrom trusts.

Feedback: Oh, yes, please!

The air sat silent, heavy with unvoiced thoughts and nearly uttered remembrances. He'd watched the man's strong back as he left the tent and wondered why he'd gone, leaving so few words between them. The thought touched off a spark within him, the faint brush of memories of other times, other places – a bare handful of words, a flick of hands, or a shrug that exposed a wealth of meaning. Arrom stared into the growing darkness, his brows drawn down until the pain in his head throbbed dull flashes behind his eyes. He reached for his flint and struck a flame that speared the gloom, shaking hands just able to carry it to the candle's wick. It flickered in the chill breeze and he held his breath.

… "_Because it is so clear, it takes a longer time to realize it; if you immediately know the candlelight is fire, then the meal was cooked a long time ago" … "__You must trust. You must believe" … "Well maybe what I don't believe is that I can light a candle with my mind. You see, I find it a lot easier to use a lighter or matches" …_

The small flame burned along the tinder – he watched it as it journeyed back towards his hand. He was caught, unable to move, unwilling to break the spell of memory.

… "_Place your hand in the flame" …_

Pain. He remembered pain.

… "_Why did you tell me to do that?" … "Why did you do it?" … "Because you told me to" … "Because you trusted me" …_

Yes. Arrom nodded, unseeing gaze turned inward.

… "_Within you is the capacity for trust" …_

He released a shaky breath and forced his hand to move towards the second candle. Light. Shamda had been telling him, showing him, that he could not remain in the darkness forever. Light found a way in, crept past the fabric of his tent, stole beneath the clouds, and lit the winter landscape with even its weakest glow. The light would pursue, would chase him with fleeting touches of memory. How long could he run, hiding behind the soft blue robes of Arrom before it pierced him? If he trusted Shamda, _he_ should be the pursuer, should hunt down the truth, dig it up, expose it. Swallow down the pain, the sorrow, the cold despair until he finally found the good, the joy, the warm comfort that surely, _surely,_ would bring it all into balance.

The candle flared, its light stark and pure, and Arrom flinched away from its brightness. Arrom was a simple man, untouched by these sweeping failures that had stood out so fiercely within him. If he heard this woman – this man – if he let their words tear gaping rents in his defenses, Arrom would be lost. His hand reached up and touched the edges of the scarf around his neck. Who would he be?

"Can I come in?"

He quickly blew out the flame and sat back against the cushions, unconsciously drawing the darkness around him. Too much. Too soon. His heart beat wildly.

"Sure." His throat closed over the word, and, shifting his weight, he tried to force his muscles to relax, to clear his mind of its immediate rejection of anything this woman would say. Arrom was fighting to stay.

The rustle of her movement brought his head up and he was struck to stillness by the honesty in her blue eyes. The man's had been guarded, sharp, carefully hiding the true depth of his feeling even as he took in everything that slipped past Arrom's own barriers. Her emotions slipped openly across her face.

Arrom listened and found an answering truthfulness on his tongue, until her words became intense, pushing and pulling at him, searing him with her need to make him understand, to mold him back into a shape she would recognize. He turned away, feeling heat across his cheeks even as he heard himself promise to consider what she'd said. It was too easy to hurt for her loss, to be caught up in her memories of sorrow and her hope that Arrom would suddenly become this other man – this Daniel – before her eyes.

His sudden fear called her back and he reached nervously for a deeper connection. Her kind smile sent a wash of relief through him that left him shivering, trembling at the thought that perhaps he'd left someone alone, that his abandonment among these people had torn him from a family, a wife, children. His stomach clenched and bile froze within his throat as he returned an empty nod and she turned away.

A moment later, his mind cleared as if flashed through with summer lightning. Brothers, sisters, the man's careful words, the woman's insistence – perhaps he had left a family behind.

Seared fingers crushed the surviving candle flame to smoke, a convenient excuse for his stinging eyes and choking cough. He found the thin cloth of his journal, the woven bag in which he kept his few treasures – his flint, a sharpened stick of charcoal, a leather bag for water. He smoothed his scarf against his skin. Shamda was right - the decision was his, but he could not spend a lifetime trying to keep the memories at bay, carefully crafting his barriers so that not even a brief spark could steal inside. And perhaps it was to these strangers that he owed his debt – to the dark eyed man, the intent woman, the dark-skinned giant who had stood back and watched with a wealth of unspoken support.

He stood, listening to their words, searching his tent for something – someone - he couldn't name. He closed his eyes and found Arrom there, within him, fading against the surge of roiling emotions, the confusion of thought, the flooding memory of exploration and discovery. "Good-bye," he whispered as he took his first step outside the tent.

"He's going home."


	9. H is for History

"H is for History"

By marzipan77

GEN

SG-1

The next installment in the Descension Fic series 'Renaissance' written for the Alphabet Challenge on Stargate Drabbles.

Summary: The past connects with a heavy hand.

Feedback: It does give me confidence. Thank you!

The silver-haired man walked out across the plain, eyes scanning the darkening horizon, resting for a moment on a scraggly patch of growth, a heap of broken stones, or turning towards the slightest sigh of wind through empty branches. The woman, a few steps behind as if hesitant to touch the edges of the leader's long shadow, moved gracefully even weighed down with a heavy pack and the long metal weapon she held against her chest. They'd begun their journey towards the Stargate on either side of him, close but careful not to touch, but his steps had gradually slowed and, finally, they'd shared a glance and allowed him to fall behind.

Arrom strode next to him for a while, urging Daniel to turn back, to remember the soft touches and wistful good-byes of the villagers, the fierce strength of Iranya's arms around him and her hastily dried tears, the warmth of Shamda's hand against his cheek. Arrom pointed out the path to the water hole, the stones worn smooth by the passage of hands and feet, the wealth of crumbling walls that had drawn his eager eyes time and time again. But, as they left the familiar sights and sounds and the flashes of memory dredged up a rush of emotion, Arrom had faded, face creased with loss, his cry echoing in the cusp of evening that Daniel would regret this step along his journey.

… "Doctor Jackson" … pointed, strident, amiable … "Daniel" … angry, fearful, gentle … "Danyel" passionate, worried, screaming in pain …

"Daniel Jackson."

He didn't know why, but the bulk of the tattooed warrior drew him, and he'd found himself walking at his side, comforted by his quiet strength, warmed by the man's dignified presence. He turned at the questioning tone to meet the dark eyes.

"Do you require assistance?"

Daniel felt his lips curve into a smile. "Thank you. I just –" he shook his head, unable to give words to these feelings. "I hope you don't mind, I just feel – unrushed – with you." He shrugged. "Calm, I guess. Safe." None of those words were quite right and Daniel sighed, searching for understanding in the broad face. He caught his breath at the profound gratitude he found there.

The large man tipped his head and Daniel felt his own forehead wrinkling in confusion at the clenched jaw and the eyes that blinked so quickly before they focused again on their surroundings. This man – Jaffa, he reminded himself – communicated so easily without uttering one single word.

"Yeah, once I got over my initial terror of Teal'c, here," the thin voice of the fourth figure drew Daniel's gaze, "I realized I never felt safer than when he was watching out for me." An easy grin and bright eyes shone in the young face.

Daniel stumbled, dizzying visions crowding his mind – fear, dread, a screeching alarm…

… "Call your medics – do it! Don't touch anything!" … seething with impatience at the delay, pain exploding in his hand … "No, it was his fault! He interfered!" … denial, disbelief, silence, resignation …

"Doctor Jackson?"

"What?" he barked.

A large hand held his shoulder in a strong grip, steadying his balance. Daniel looked up at the concerned face above him and nodded his thanks. As the hand dropped away, almost reluctantly, Daniel turned to the other man, surprised by his sudden paleness, fear stalking in the widened eyes.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, frown knotting his sweat-soaked skin. He drew one sleeve across his forehead and tried to curb his sudden trembling.

"Do you remember, Daniel Jackson?"

He shook his head. "No. It's not memory," Daniel tried to explain, "Just flashes – feelings, mostly. Sometimes words, sounds, smells."

… glass cracked, the air burned his throat, his nose … sweat dripped down his back … waves of heat and energy danced across his vision … the coppery taste of blood … the gagging smell of scorched flesh … "No!" …

Daniel's gaze snapped to the thin figure now keeping a careful distance to his right. "Voices."

The young man jerked a nod in his direction and quickened his pace to walk beside the woman – Samantha Carter. Sam.

Daniel stepped away from the Jaffa and steadied his breathing, forcing down the dimming anger, the flooding despair, the heavy weight of surrender. His eyes focused on the tips of his boots, just visible beneath the billow of his robes. One foot and then the other, safe against the ground, the frozen grasses crinkling, their slender sheaths of ice breaking into brittle pieces.

He was tied down to the earth, tied to these people with invisible bonds that sometimes grew lax, sometimes tightened harshly against his spirit. The man – Jack, not Jim – turned and pierced him with a dark, unreadable stare and Daniel could almost see the connection between them. Strong, turbulent, holding him close, but not too close, even when he'd resumed his steady gait across the plain. Sam's quick smile, a shade too bright, gripped him and loosed him in one motion. At his side, the Jaffa, Teal'c, stood guard, immovable, over his soul.

The fourth man was a puzzle, their bond sloppy with broken threads and choking knots, chaotic, intense and yet as thin as a shard of glass. It seemed that Daniel could break it with one sideways step, but it held him nonetheless, clutching fingers scrabbling at his skin.

He needed his memories, needed them to buffer him from these naked, crushing links that burned like freezing metal.

Dead and yet alive again. Ascended, the man had said, to a higher plane of existence. A being without form, without body, encased in the skin of the universe. It sounded impossible, like a story told to children of unseen guardians, inhuman creatures who watched and waited, helped and comforted, toting up good and evil on a celestial scoreboard. Perhaps that's why these connections burned, left bruises, beating him with such cumbersome thoughts and sensations. He clenched his fists, reveling in the sharp prick of his fingernails against his palms. Perhaps he'd forgotten how to feel, how to survive within a human skin, how to live with the demands of family, of friendship, of hate and love and every other human emotion.

He'd fallen from that higher plane: pushed out, thrown down, banished. Such a fall must leave scars. Daniel breathed deeply of the air of his adopted world as they reached the stone ring and the device that he knew controlled its twists and turns. He reached out one hand to touch seven symbols, the grind and scrape of metal familiar, comforting, each light along the circle warm and healing. Perhaps even these scars would heal.


	10. I is for Ignorance

"I is for Ignorance"

by marzipan77

GEN

SG-1

The next installment in the Descension Fic series 'Renaissance' written for the Alphabet Challenge on Stargate Drabbles.

Summary: "Real knowledge is to know the extent of one's ignorance." -Confucius

Feedback: Who doesn't love it?

The blue surge of energy swelled from the center of the circle, rushing towards him, but he didn't feel an instant of fear. The light and sound splashed across him, tying him to the ancient 'gate, to the people around him, and to the pain and discovery awaiting him on the other side. This was right. Felt right. Even though, beneath this certainty lay a reservoir of doubt. A strange sensation ghosted across his skin and he looked up to find four pairs of eyes focused on him – some in open disbelief, some in hooded, wary suspicion. Daniel stepped back from the dialing device, not sure what he'd done wrong.

"You dialed Earth's address."

The man – Jack – spoke to Daniel's unuttered question. He glanced down at the concentric rings of symbols.

"Yes?"

The dark gaze never wavered, holding him still as if pinned to the very air. He felt naked there, flayed open by the man's intensity. The woman finally moved and broke the spell.

"Sir? Should I send the IDC?"

Jack nodded, still staring, and Daniel swallowed. He'd done it automatically, without thought, without real knowledge of his actions. He rubbed his fingers together, lifting his hand to regard it with frowning mistrust. His body had moved confidently, had reacted to the sight of this mechanism unconsciously. What else might it do without his clear intent?

A thin voice issued from the left shoulder of each of the green-clad figures. "SG-1, this is Hammond. Report."

Samantha turned away and grasped the device, cocking her head to one side. "Sir, we have an … unexpected situation here." He watched her glance towards the silver-haired man. "Perhaps you should send the MALP, sir."

The voice carried a hint of impatience. "Very well. We'll disconnect and ready the MALP. It should be coming to you within fifteen minutes."

"Thank you, sir. Carter, out."

The blue pool dissolved into nothingness with a noisy sigh.

Jack walked closer, hands quiet where they hung across his weapon. He jerked his head towards the symbols on the dialing mechanism. "Show me." A command – a demand – but flavored with something that tasted like hope.

After a moment, Daniel nodded and moved back to his place at the device's foot. He touched each symbol reverently, one finger barely brushing against the raised surface, tracing the patterns almost wistfully as he repeated the names that came easily to his tangled mind.

"_Auriga_," the charioteer, he added to himself. "_Cetus_." The sea monster, or, in modern times, the whale. His mouth had dried to desert sand and he looked up, blinking, to find the hooded eyes now laced with compassion, their former coldness replaced by empathy, and one hand moved quickly to his shoulder. The simple touch calmed the surge of frustration that had erupted in Daniel's spirit. He dropped his gaze to the symbols and continued.

"_Centaurus_, the centaur," _'so close,'_ his heart insisted. He cleared his throat. "_Cancer_. _Scutum_." Crab and Shield. "_Eridanus_, the river." His fingers traced down to the symbol that rested just below the globe in the center, a symbol that was noticeably different from all the others. "Vis Uban," he muttered, sketching out the straight lines and uneven boxes of another language.

"Well done, Daniel Jackson," the dark-skinned man bowed solemnly, a lightness spreading across his face. "You remember well."

He turned back when he felt the hand on his shoulder squeeze gently. Jack's other hand was tapping against the dull red jewel in the center of the device. "Who made this, Daniel?" he asked softly.

His reply was immediate, leaping from his lips. "Anquietas."

Two raised eyebrows and a crooked half-smile responded.

"Sir, that's Ancient – it means-"

"It means 'the Ancients,' Major." Jack never released Daniel from his intense gaze. "You remember any other 'gate addresses, Daniel?"

He frowned, images of unpatterned sand, a sea of waving grasses, a dark, shadowed forest, crowded rooms filled with dust and boxes, ornate golden walls, tents, ruined stone, sleek domes … his breathing sped and his heart pounded, the heavy hand barely enough to keep him from falling beneath the wave of memory.

Chulak – Tollana – Argos - Cimmeria – Abydos – six symbols and the constant seventh.

… "_A funny little … with two funny guys …" …_

A pyramid with one moon. Giza. Terra. Earth. Home.

His eyes must have answered, because Jack simply nodded and held him firmly at arm's length. "I guess I shouldn't be surprised that you'd remember Stargate addresses before you remembered us."

Disappointment. Daniel heard it even though the words were even, the face a careful mask of bland approval. This man who held himself so rigidly under a veneer of good humor and efficiency was waiting. Waiting for Daniel. He searched himself, digging mental fingernails into the morass of his mind, his memory, trying to tear away the clogging visions of symbols and worlds, to burrow beneath the confusing litany of addresses, the color of alien skies, and the wreckage of foreign cultures. As completely as he'd rejected his former life, as fiercely as he'd battled to remain 'naked,' with no ties to man or world, now he wrestled to find a way to soothe the regret in Jack's eyes, to fill the emptiness that wrenched at him from the older man's soul.

How could he forget these people who radiated their concern? How could he remember languages, words, symbols, and yet remain ignorant of the other lives that were connected to his own? Fleeting images, faces thrilled with discovery or burdened with grief were not enough. Not nearly enough.

"I'm sorry." His voice cracked painfully in his throat.

Jack tapped his shoulder gently, shaking his head. "Don't sweat it." His smile slid quickly away. "You're a pretty fast learner."

Daniel tore his gaze away from the false amusement, brows drawn harshly, his mind denying the easy pardon offered from the man's thin lips. The remembered sense of failure rose up again within him, Jack's face surrounded by a nimbus of light.

… "_You just giving up?" …_

No. Not this time.


	11. J is for Judged

"J is for Judged"

by marzipan77

GEN

SG-1

The next installment in the Descension Fic series 'Renaissance' written for the Alphabet Challenge on Stargate Drabbles.

Summary: Is Daniel going home?

Feedback: Thank you so much, I really appreciate it.

The clanking sound drew Daniel's gaze to the Stargate. A moment later a strange, gangly device lurched through the puddle of suspended sky and the familiar, tinny voice issued from its thin neck.

"Colonel O'Neill, report."

More than impatient now, somehow Daniel knew that that tone meant apprehension, concern; the powerful man who stood reflected in a sheet of glass on a world one step and a million miles away was worried. He frowned, watching Jack move quickly to stand before the camera – his head pounded – the camera that would send a video signal back to the other man.

THAT he remembered. He remembered that a video or audio signal could preserve a voice or an image through the warping tunnel in space that connected one world to another, but not the names of his friends. What if he never remembered? What if those flashes of pain, the momentary snatches of connection were all he'd ever have, and these people who now crowded around him, herding him towards Jack and the Stargate – what if they only received back these tattered remnants of Daniel Jackson's life? How could that be enough? He stumbled and tried to focus on taking one breath, and then another.

It wasn't the teasing lightness that Jack meant them all to hear that echoed within Daniel's aching mind. Something else colored the soldier's easy tone, something darker and more desperate. "Well, General, we'd like your permission to bring along a hitchhiker."

Permission? The winter wind raised bumps along Daniel's skin.

… "_You're in no position to make demands, Jackson." …_

Panic caught at him. The man at the other end of the wormhole, the powerful man, could make Daniel's exile on this planet permanent.

"Care to explain, Colonel?"

One hand snatched off the brown cap and brushed through the short silver hair. "Turns out the nice people here got a visitor about two months ago-"

"- closer to three by Earth measurements, sir," Samantha hurriedly corrected from her position on Daniel's left.

Daniel watched narrowed brown eyes turn to her for a moment, but the interplay brushed past him, almost unnoticed. No. He couldn't – not now. Just one day ago Daniel would have fought to stay, to shelter in his tent cloaked in the reassuring loneliness of disconnection. But now – his gaze flickered from face to face, a wail of protest rising to a piercing screech within him, and, shaking, he grasped at the thick forearm of the Jaffa. This voice of power may choose to reject him as thoroughly as those 'Ascended Beings' had.

Was that his punishment for whatever dark deeds had led his conscience to accept this overwhelming feeling of utter failure? To be alone – abandoned by those he'd known as Daniel Jackson, whether in life or in whatever afterlife he'd been granted?

"As I was saying," Jack continued his explanation. "About two months ago they discovered a stranger along one of their footpaths – didn't know who he was. He first appeared in a bright flash of light."

"It's okay, Doctor Jackson." Daniel jerked his attention to the young man in green who whispered nearby, one hand briefly resting on Daniel's wrist where his fingers were clenched in the fabric of Teal'c's sleeve. The man smiled and gestured. "This is just a machine we use to talk-"

"I know," Daniel interrupted impatiently. He tightened his grip, unwilling to lose what tentative connection he might have to these people.

" – but you – "

"Jonas Quinn." The deep voice of the Jaffa silenced the young man and Daniel raised panicked eyes to calm brown ones. "Daniel Jackson will be fine."

Fine. He would be fine. It sounded like a promise. Daniel felt the fear loosen its grip and turned back to watch Jack's side of the conversation. They hadn't wanted to leave him with Shamda and the villagers, he reminded himself. They'd seemed anxious to convince Daniel to leave, to 'go home.'

"Goa'uld?" The disembodied voice was angry, sharp, demanding answers. "Did Anubis get there ahead of us?"

Daniel focused, listening, trying to find a reason to expect the nameless man would let him through the iris – he clamped his teeth painfully over his lip at the ease of memory – the metal shield that could bring his journey to a quick stop against its impenetrable surface. Others had been shut out by it before. Those unwanted, who hadn't earned their place. Daniel screwed up his eyes, headache throbbing. He needed to remember enough to get beyond the suspicion and irritation, to cover the distance from anger to acceptance. Harsh words rang in his ears, and then, later, softer, compassionate ones.

_... "a good friend of mine is lost" ... "yes, he's a very good friend" ..._

Perhaps this name – Anubis – that caused such distress. He'd heard it before. Jack had described him as an 'over-the-top cliché bad guy' but other sights, other words played across Daniel's memories. Anubis. Anpu. Jackal-headed, Old Kingdom god of the underworld. Ruler of the bows. Weigher of hearts. He breathed in the sweet incense, the herbs and unguents of preparation.

… _the chill desert wind scoured his flesh … "Grant me a place in your blessed dwelling" … the slender figure wrapped in white linen bands. … "If my heart weighs more than a feather my soul still contains sin, if not, may my soul join the gods." … The scale of judgment, poised to accept or reject the sundered soul …accept or reject …_

"No, sir. No sign of the Goa'uld here." Jack turned towards him and frowned. "Hey," he called, the word suddenly gentle, the older man's expression kind in the face of what must be Daniel's palpable dread. "It's okay," he urged, cocking his head towards the device and reaching out one arm in invitation. "C'mon over and say a few words to the boys back home."

What could he say? What would allow him entrance to the place that must hold his memories?

Samantha grinned, nodding. Teal'c steered him with a large hand on his back. Daniel felt Jack's light grip on the back of his neck as he guided him into position.

Still, he groped for the right words, the code, the set of syllables that held the key. "I don't know … what should I …"

He heard a gasp, the clatter of metal against metal, a jumble of raised voices, the scrape of chairs and booted feet. And then silence.

"Doctor Jackson? Son?"

Daniel breathed, tears in his eyes. Perhaps, somehow, his heart was light.


	12. K is for Kindness

"K is for Kindness"

By marzipan77

GEN

SG-1

The next installment in the Descension Fic series 'Renaissance' written for the Alphabet Challenge on Stargate Drabbles.

Summary: Kindness may be too much for Daniel right now.

Feedback: Thank you so much, I really appreciate it.

Daniel lowered his chin, eyes closed, arms wrapped tightly around his chest. How had that one word spoken across light years through a strange mechanical device loosed the fragile hold he'd kept on his emotions?

"Son?"

It swept through him, lighting dark corners of his mind and opening him to such intense feelings of warmth and belonging that they threatened to tip him into an embarrassing emotional release. True memories were still fleeting, overwhelmed by the visceral reactions that shook his resolve, made his limbs tremble with weakness.

Other voices echoed within him – voices from the past, dusty with age and distance – that spoke kindness and compassion and love. And other voices – closer, brighter, undimmed by time – that took up the same warm sentiments. He recognized some: the deep, resonating voice, the lighter feminine tones, both undergirded with steel, the voice of support and experience he'd just heard issue from the speakers on the MALP, and the wry, demanding tone that did its best to hide a deep well of caring and connection.

Probably only a moment later, the firm hand gripping his neck tightened briefly before it eased him to the side and dropped away.

"Sorry, General, but Daniel's not quite himself. Seems somebody's messed with his memory."

"But you're sure it's Doctor Jackson – and he's … physically present?"

Daniel found the practical, unemotional exchange grounding him, allowing him to pull himself back together, to allow his hands to fall away from his body, to raise his head and his eyes to the silver-haired man at his side.

"Well, I haven't tried to throw a shoe through him, but he feels pretty solid to me, sir."

A fine trickle of regret filtered through the cushioning detachment Daniel had begun to enfold himself in once again. Regret – grief – frustration. Jack's face mirrored the emotions. He struggled to hold on, to present a calm front when every casually uttered phrase sent him reeling.

"Any idea how this could have happened, Colonel?"

Daniel tore his gaze from the older man's and saw that Sam eased forward half a step before Jack stopped her with a brief gesture.

"Ideas, theories, conjectures, wild speculation – oh, we've got those by the handful, General, but no real facts. I'd like to get Daniel into Frasier's hands as soon as possible."

… _cool hands, firm but gentle and so small compared with his own … a bright light flashed before his eyes … eyes dark with concern, frantic with worry … "I really need to get back to Cassandra" … steely with resolve … "you're very lucky, Doctor Jackson" … filled with tears as she stood, speechless, above him … _

"Very well. Any precautions you believe we should take on this end?"

A shiver rocked Daniel for a moment before Jack turned his sharp-eyed regard in his direction. Without changing his focus, Jack continued to speak to the unseen man on the other side of the wormhole.

"I'd clear the corridors between the 'gate room and the infirmary, sir."

"Understood. Hammond out."

The blue shimmer dissolved into the air with a snap and Daniel jumped, startled.

"Jonas, let's give it a couple of minutes and then dial her up." Jack seemed to gather the others without saying a word – Teal'c and Sam closed on either side, drawing Daniel into the circle of their company. It felt right standing with them – as if their nearness held a portion of his missing soul and he could regain himself by their very presence. The initial fear and denial were drowned by other, more immediate emotions. Daniel stood very straight, frowning, fists clenched to try to hold back a sudden, irresistible desire to reach out to feel their warmth against his skin. He knew a single touch might undo him.

"Listen, Daniel." The older man placed the cap back on his head, eyes scanning for something over Daniel's head. "I know this is all feeling very weird and," he waved both hands, "wacky, but in a minute we're going to step through there," he pointed towards the Stargate, "and take a little trip to the SGC. Everybody there is a friend." His seemingly nervous movements stopped and he tucked his hands on top of the weapon strapped to his chest, finally letting his gaze rest on Daniel's face. "You have no reason to trust me, but-"

Daniel ducked his head. "I do," he choked out. He wanted to say more, but words were like the first drops of a torrential rain; they wanted to pour out of him, released on waves of his floundering emotions. He had to bite them off, smoothing his features into a mask of controlled acceptance, before the mixture of comfort and relief and hope crushed him beneath his sudden expectations.

The expression on Jack's face was just as guarded, as if he could understand, could see beneath the simple statement into the precarious hold Daniel had on his reactions. He nodded, once.

The cold, prickling of his skin, colors bursting to life, sliding through his veins, roaring, whirling, tugging him apart, leveling him to nothing and then building him up, molecule by molecule, into muscles and sinew and guts and anticipation and despair carried him through space to take a first, echoing step home. Grey walls rose around him, all harsh angles and rigid restraint. No sky. No horizon. But a barely contained contentment expanded within him, filling him, every inch, every cell exploding with relief. Daniel let gravity pull him down the ramp, answering the man who stood there, amazed, with a few mumbled syllables.

Again, it was Jack who rescued him with simple gestures, light tones, and an anything but effortless wit. He walked close behind him, easing Daniel away from wrong turns with a fleeting touch, and gracefully cutting him away from the others with a few words of command. No demands. No emotional scenes.

As he made his way deeper into the complex, each step farther from the naked man who was torn out of heaven and deposited on a planet beneath stormy skies, from the gentle comfort of Shamda and the cold detachment of a life of fear, from Arrom, he knew Daniel Jackson was rushing towards him, and the pain and confusion of memory and the weight of his past and the burden of friendships waited for one breach of his control – waited to drown him. One kind word, one entreating look would do it. But this man – this friend – stood guard, allowing Daniel to rebuild his walls, shore up his defenses.

White light spilled from an open doorway ahead and Daniel hesitated, his steps faltering for the first time. The presence at his back, close, steadying, never wavered, but matched him stride for stride.

"It's okay," Jack stated evenly. "I'll be right here."


	13. L is for Life and Death

"L is for Life and Death"

by marzipan77

GEN

SG-1

The next installment in the Descension Fic series 'Renaissance' written for the Alphabet Challenge on Stargate Drabbles.

Summary: "Death is not the greatest loss in life. The greatest loss is what dies inside us while we live." Norman Cousins

Feedback: Sure makes my day!

"Hello, I'm Janet Frasier."

She was so small, wrapped in a long white coat and a thick shell of professionalism. But Daniel could see the cracks, could recognize the signs of dissolving self-control – he knew that feeling from the inside out. This woman's eyes were devouring him.

"Hello." He wished – _longed -_ to have something else to give her.

The answering smile that rewarded his single word was full of life.

"Would you come with me, please?"

Daniel followed without a thought until his curious gaze fell on a white expanse of clean, bright bedding and sleek metal and glass devices winking red and green. His throat closed with a sudden clench of muscles as a red haze filled his vision, a thick, heavy weight bearing down on his flayed flesh, his chest, his face, his arms oozing his life drop by drop.

… "_He's seizing – get the crash cart. Get me five of Valium!" … pain, lightning searing his nerves, blinding, deafening, drowning him, drowning …_

Hands gripped his arms from behind and shook him once, twice, the sound of his teeth rattling like rocks skittering across a marble floor.

"Daniel! Breathe!"

… "_Why do you care?" …_

A sharp gasp – not his, not this time – air barely trickled into his raw, burning throat. Had he said that out loud?

"I care, Daniel, _I care_."

Daniel felt the words sink through his skin and into his soul. The solid figure at his side guided him, one arm now around his waist, to sit, body hunched, curling away from pain that was more than memory. He tried to blink the blood from his eyes and suddenly found them clear.

"Try to breathe normally, Doctor Jackson."

Oh, god – she was crying, haunted by the same ghosts, sharing the same stifling air - pale beneath her forced calm.

"Sorry - I'm sorry –" he choked, memories filling him, bleeding images mingling with the here and now. The same hands, smells, sounds, the same despair, fear, and loss.

A hand against his cheek steadied him and Daniel focused on the familiar lined face inches away from his, brown eyes flaring with intensity, shadows of his death clearly visible within the dark orbs.

"Daniel – you with us?"

Jack was crouched before him, one hand on his knee, the other warm on skin strangely whole and unbloodied. Daniel sensed the doctor's concerned presence at his side, trembling fingers pressed to his wrist. He nodded, swallowing frantic mutterings of apology that couldn't possibly touch the others' grief.

"Good. Good." The dark eyes never let go. "Doc – what happened?"

The silence from the small woman was full of tears.

"I- I died," Daniel whispered, gaze roaming the ranks of beds and instruments beyond the colonel's motionless form. "Here – I died here."

"Yeah."

One breathless syllable acknowledged an expanse of loss that filled time and space, drawing Daniel's eyes back to Jack's face. His jaw was clenched. Lips thin. Eyes now pools of emptiness. The doctor – Janet, he'd called her Janet – shuffled her feet, heels clicking against the floor. The sound echoed beyond the dikes that held back his memories.

"What do you remember, Doctor Jackson?"

… _glass against his face, falling around his body … burning, his skin was burning, collapsing from the inside, melting away … "may have … come to admire you … a little" … snatches of breath, hot and cold, pins and needles and knives gouging out troughs of skin and bone and thought, leaving nothing … "Colonel!" …_

He huffed out a breath and tried to smile. "It hurt." Simple truth. Agony, torture of his body, of his soul – but there weren't words and he shook his head.

"You were both there." A strange thought intruded, something dear to this man, but the slippers were the wrong color and there wasn't a farm or a twister.

Jack never moved, didn't speak. Held onto Daniel with hands and eyes. Never denying, never compromising the memory to lessen the pain. Never suggesting it had been a dream.

A touch on his shoulder broke the spell and he turned to look into tear-filled eyes. "You remember that? And us?" She seemed to be caught between hope and fear, the same feelings that had tumbled through Arrom to lead Daniel to this place.

"Sometimes," he admitted. "Some things make it through the fog." He reached out to smooth one finger over her small hand. "Important things - feelings. Faces."

Janet – smiling, stern, demanding _… full of sorrow …_

The General – commanding, honorable, soft and hard in balance _… grieving …_

Teal'c – stoic, amused, protective _… anguished …_

Sam – intense, honest, loving _… sobbing …_

And Jack – he turned back and surprised a look of open, raw pain on Jack's face. He remembered this man was strong, warm, accepting, cynical, infuriating, playful _… faltering … overwhelmed by regret …_

The faces dissolved, leaving behind only the dregs of memory, the ties of friendship and family that remained firm within him. There were other faces, some he'd glimpsed in dreams, some he'd tried to forget, and others he yearned to remember. But these were the faces of his memories, tied to this place, to his death – and his life.

"I'm sorry."

Jack tightened his hand against Daniel's face, mouth quirking. "So are we, Daniel. So are we."

His pounding heart slowed, the trickling sweat soaked up by the soft robes on his back, and Daniel licked dry lips. The doctor's hand sketched a familiar path up and down along his arm. Jack pressed both hands against his bent knees and groaned as he straightened, drawing Daniel's gaze upward to follow. The small doctor and the veteran soldier exchanged a long glance filled with shock, disbelief, amazement, and, finally, a careful joy.

Daniel lived.


	14. M is for Mezzanine

**Just a few words of thanks to those of you who have been reading and leaving such encouraging feedback. I'm sorry if I've missed sending any individual 'thanks' – and I'm sorry for the length of time since I've posted. I'm so grateful for all your support! And I hope this departure from Daniel's POV for this single, central letter of the alphabet works!**

"M is for Mezzanine"

By marzipan77

GEN

SG-1

The next installment in the Descension Fic series 'Renaissance' written for the Alphabet Challenge on Stargate Drabbles.

Summary: Mezzanine: A partial story between two main stories of a building. A balcony from which the audience can watch a show. From the Latin, medianus – in the middle.

Feedback: As always, it is so appreciated.

George Hammond watched silently as O'Neill ushered a dead man down the ramp and towards the base infirmary. The very familiar blue eyes had been strong and clear, unapologetically denying his connection to Hammond, the SGC, even Earth itself, but George glimpsed the telltale signs of discomfort in the averted gaze and the nervous clutch of the archaeologist's fingers in the soft fabric of the scarf around his neck.

He'd searched for answers or explanations in the faces of his premier team but saw only his own hope and confusion reflected there. Jack O'Neill's attempt at ice-breaking humor had nearly snapped a surly reproof from him, but Hammond had tightened his jaw and allowed the moment to pass.

Giving Major Carter and Teal'c the command to meet him in the briefing room ASAP, Hammond slowly climbed the steps to the control room, immediately pierced by the wide-eyed stare of the technician there. Harriman sat stiffly at his station, eyes sharp behind his glasses – and those eyes had witnessed wonders and horrors through that thick glass window over the past six years. But this – Daniel Jackson's return in flesh and blood - seemed more like a miracle.

"Chief-" Hammond started firmly and then found no words to follow.

"Sir. Is it… I mean… it sure looks like …"

George shook his head. "Walter, let's hold off on the betting pool for the moment." He glanced at the empty chair where Master Sergeant Siler had been sitting when the MALP transmission had come through. As usual, Walter anticipated his question.

"Sergeant Siler cleared the corridors and is preparing quarters for – for –"

"For our guest," Hammond finished for him.

"Yes, sir."

He nodded. "Good. Keep the base on general alert for now. Oh, and Walter –"

The chief straightened in his chair.

"Discreet guards on our guest, please."

A fleeting frown was quickly replaced by the airman's professional, reserved expression. "Of course, General."

Hammond turned towards the stairs, thoughts and images crowding his mind. The veteran soldier within him, the one who'd seen duplicate robots, alternate realities, and alien masking technology urged caution, reminded him of every enemy infiltration, every near fatal mistake the SGC had weathered during his tenure as its commander. But the man – he shook his head and allowed a moment of pure, parental delight to fill him – the man wanted to simply accept Daniel Jackson's return with open arms and an open mind.

Inside his office, door firmly closed on the Enigma that would, by now, be suffering under the gentle care of Janet Frasier and the mother-hen hovering of Jack O'Neill, Hammond slumped into his chair and felt his gaze drawn to the red phone at the corner of his desk. There was a call he knew he should make. A call that would inform the dangerous political world, and would release the slavering wolves to descend on the resurrected – the confused and vulnerable - man, and on Hammond's equally aching team. He sighed and smoothed both trembling hands across his head, closing his eyes, feeling the heavy weight of the stars on his shoulders.

~o~

"He doesn't know us, General."

Samantha Carter's sorrow was plainly written on her face; it echoed from her voice. Her description of the startling meeting within the nomadic village on Vis Uban had begun with the officer's usual business-like efficiency, but the immensity of the shock and the depth of her emotions had gradually worn away her control. Beside her, Teal'c, the stoic, reserved warrior and anchor of SG-1 was forced to blink away tears. He'd remained silent, the muscle in his square jaw jumping with tension, needing every ounce of rigid control that he'd learned under the heavy hand of the Goa'uld to restrain himself. Dark eyes flickered again and again towards the empty briefing room doorway.

Hammond turned towards the young man sitting one chair away on his left, hoping that Jonas Quinn, one step removed from the grief that had brought this team to its knees barely a year ago, would have more information. The pale, drawn face and distressed gaze that seemed fastened to his teammates' reactions reminded the general that what Teal'c, and Sam Carter, and Jack O'Neill – and Hammond himself – saw as a miracle, a return of hope and the filling of a dark void in their lives, this man saw as the physical reminder of his world's fatal mistakes and his status as 'replacement' among them.

The displaced air and sense of vibrating anxiety that Jack O'Neill brought into the room was a welcome distraction. George managed one glance at the others to confirm that this proficient, disciplined team had completely forgotten their commanding officer's presence, and were concentrating every particle of their attention on the colonel's face. As the officer lowered his lanky form into the chair to Hammond's left next to Quinn, George didn't blame them for a moment – military protocol be damned.

"Jack?"

The slight smile and exasperated head shake that answered him touched Hammond's heart - only a certain archaeologist/linguist/diplomat could produce that exact reaction from the Air Force colonel.

"Oh, it's him, sir," Jack insisted, rubbing one callused hand across his face and into his short, grey hair. "I don't know what the glowy types did to him up there, how permanent this amnesia-thing is, but the guy down on that bed being poked and prodded and proven completely human is our Daniel Jackson."

"But Colonel, how-"

"You are certain, O'Neill-"

"That's amazing, sir-"

The voices cut off all at once when Hammond raised one insistent hand. He turned back to meet Jack O'Neill's dark, glittering eyes to see that the smile had become grim, painful. The man looked every day of his age and every instant of every mission in his thick personnel file. But beneath all that, under the surface, a peace, a serenity, glowed briefly from the hard-assed soldier's soul. "Go on, Jack."

Jack nodded his thanks and placed his hands flat on the oak table. "Besides the stuff we saw on the planet – the way he dialed the 'gate without thinking about it, the languages he knew, all the little things," the pressure on his hands whitened the colonel's fingers against the dark wood, "his reaction as soon as he saw the infirmary was a _dead_ giveaway – horrible pun most definitely intended."

"Oh, God."

His roiling gut echoed the major's sentiment, but he swallowed down the bile. "Are you saying that Doctor Jackson remembers his own death?" Anything but the forceful commander now, George heard the incredulous horror in his own voice, pleading for Jack to deny the truth.

The colonel banged one fist on the table and flashed an icy grimace. "Oh, yeah. Nice bunch those Ascended bastards, huh? Can't let him remember his friends, but his painful, lingering death? No problem."

Silence fell among them, crowding each one into isolation within his or her own memories of those desperate, agonizing hours, smothering any attempts to stutter soothing platitudes into the emptiness. Turmoil swirled through the air: grief, regret, words left unsaid, hope and fear dissolving what little control this team – this family – still grasped. And George knew that, as commander, as the head of this barely functioning family, he had a decision to make. He could stick to his standing orders. Protocols. SOPs. Or he could allow his time at the SGC, with this group of people, with Daniel Jackson especially, to inform his choice, to put those military directives into proper perspective.

Finally, Hammond rose, drawing the colonel and the major up to stand with him in a long-accustomed response. His words would steer the path these people walked, would supply their mission towards healing, towards the future, or keep them lingering here drowning in uncertainty.

"Gentlemen – Major – barring any findings to the contrary from Doctor Fraiser, we will proceed under the assumption that Doctor Daniel Jackson is… home."

Major Carter's smile could power the Stargate. Teal'c straightened in one motion and then placed his right fist against his chest and bowed with regal gratitude. Jonas scrabbled with the books and papers spread before him, eyes downcast, nodding quietly to himself.

George turned to the man at his left hand.

Colonel Jack O'Neill tried to hide his desperate joy behind the fixed mask of command. And failed.


	15. N is for Numb

"N is for Numb"

by marzipan77

GEN

SG-1

The next installment in the Descension Fic series 'Renaissance' written for the Alphabet Challenge on Stargate Drabbles.

Summary: "When I was a child I caught a fleeting glimpse, out of the corner of my eye. I turned to look but it was gone. I cannot put my finger on it now - the child is grown, the dream is gone."

Feedback: It would certainly warm the cockles of my heart!

Hands – he remembered the touch of these hands. Cool on blistered skin, soft enough to soothe the deep wounds of the spirit, and firm and decisive when he needed a solid connection to hope. These hands that touched him with what should have been unnatural and unwelcome intimacy, that pierced his skin with needles and drew out his life-blood – he watched them blurring quickly in and out of his vision as they moved and danced and the doctor wove words in the air around him. Lying on the narrow bed, bright light bleeding into all of his darkness, he watched her hands. Daniel watched her hands because he did not want to watch her face.

That face now echoed others – light eyes and dark, faces that towered above him or crouched to smile into his eyes. Hair spread in soft waves, short, blonde strands stiff with desert winds, tousled brown in an uncombed mess. Glasses reflecting the soft light of lanterns and candles within a dim, crowded tent. Bright blue eyes wide in panic before they disappeared in dust and screams. Brows wrinkled in dismissal beneath graying, flyaway tendrils.

One finger touched a long thin scar on his side. Two grazed a patch of unmatched flesh on his right shoulder. Daniel closed his eyes as they swept back his hair and lingered along his forehead. Here and there they brushed against him, lighting for a moment as if in recognition, as if greeting old friends. He felt his own hand creeping up to touch the strange, familiar pad stuck to his chest and met warm fingers there. He snatched his away as if burned.

"It's all right, Doctor Jackson. We're almost finished here."

A smile touched his mouth at the habitual lie. Somehow Daniel knew that 'almost finished' promised just the opposite. He opened his eyes and recognized the flash of humor in the woman's dark eyes before the ghost of memory returned and filled him with that deep, yawning emptiness. He laid his bare arm across his eyes, shutting everything out. The rhythmic beeps and sighs of the machinery, the crisp feel of the sheet on his skin, small touches, all smeared into a haze, dulled to a background hum that left him floating, distant, numb.

… _a woman's voice soothed like cool water. "Shh, Danny, you're okay, it's just a scratch."_

"_Hurts, mama."_

"_I know, I know. Here, let mama blow on it. See?"_

_Gentle fingers wiped the tears from his cheeks and then tilted his chin up. "Better?"_

_He blinked, squinting up into the searing desert sun, the face above him darkly shadowed but surrounded by a glowing halo of light …_

"We're just about done here, Daniel, but we'll need to wait for your test results."

He lowered his arm, frowning. The small doctor had gathered up all the vials and tubes, the thick sheaf of papers that Daniel somehow knew told a long, detailed history of his pain, and smiled quietly down at him. The cloud of confused detachment still seemed thick, cushioning him from more than the physical tenderness. He reached up but his face was dry.

"Maybe you'd like to get a shower? I've had Sergeant Siler bring down one of your –" she hesitated, one hand patting a pile of green cloth that lay on an opposite bed, "some clean clothes."

"A shower?" Daniel sat up, clutching the thin sheet, puzzled to find that the sticky pads had been removed, disconnecting him from the surrounding machines. The tall, dour figure that hovered nearby, gaze carefully averted, deepened his sense of separation.

"I'll be happy to escort him, ma'am."

The doctor – Janet, he remembered – nodded and hurried off. The sergeant gestured and Daniel dropped the sheet and followed.

… _warm arms wrapped him in a huge, fluffy towel, and he clutched hard to the sturdy, familiar chest that smelled of spice and sweat and home and love._

"_You're going to turn into a wrinkly little bean if you stay any longer in the bath, Danny." The deep, throaty chuckles vibrated through his bones and he held tight, tighter, suddenly afraid._

"_Hey, what's up?" Large hands ruffled through his wet hair, smoothing it back to try to find his face._

_Daniel buried his head, shaking, small fingers white as they gripped as hard as they could. Finally, soft kisses pressed against his head, gentle hands turned down the folds of the towel, hands lifted him to sit atop the vanity, and he emerged and sought the familiar, tender eyes. The light from the open doorway behind him blurred his father's form to a foggy silhouette, glinting in sparks and shards through his tumbled hair ..._

He opened his eyes into the falling water, finding the right pattern and pace in his movements to clean himself, rinse, letting the pounding rhythm work his tense muscles. He turned the knobs and skimmed his hands through his short hair, squeezing the water out to run down his back before he reached for the towel. The clothes fell against his body in familiar folds and sure, certain fingers buttoned, zipped, closed buckles, tugged everything into place.

Moving out through the dimly lit room, Daniel saw that the sergeant stood, his back turned, a phone held to one ear. His gaze was drawn past his empty bed, past the chair that stood at its side, towards the doorway beyond.

He couldn't say what compelled him, only that he had to go, had to see – he had to find the bonds, the ties that held him to this world, that promised that Daniel Jackson deserved to live and that Arrom could be left to dissolve behind him. Perhaps the numb, hollow cold that had grown around him since those agonizing memories of his own death had been meant to be a shelter, a sanctuary from further pain or hurt, but the fog distorted his memories to hide beloved faces, to veil him from the very things he needed to give him anchor and weight in this new/old life. He'd chase the pain if he had to – chase it, hold it, draw it deep within him if that was the cost to see the faces in his dreams.

Daniel reached out and slid his fingers along the metal door frame as he passed through. Guilt, dread, failure – nothing he might find could be as wretched and desolate – as lonely - as this numbness.


	16. O is for Owning

"O is for Owning"

by marzipan77

GEN

SG-1

The next installment in the Descension Fic series 'Renaissance' written for the Alphabet Challenge on Stargate Drabbles.

Summary: What did Daniel still own? What did Jack?

Feedback: It would be great to hear from you!

Jack stood silently in the VIP suite, hands in his pockets. The box sat expectantly atop the blue comforter, its lid askew, the tape dry and cracked where it had been cut and resealed time after time, but he couldn't bring himself to open it just yet. He let his gaze wander as he paced aimlessly in the few feet of floor-space around the bed, smiling at the artifacts scattered over every surface, at the things that had found their way to this cold, cement-walled room in such a short time. Objects from the histories of a dozen planets, gifts from hard-won friends, memories – some warm and soft, some hard and cold – and reminders of a life lived – and lost - in exploration, in discovery, eyes wide open.

He fingered the black-sheathed sword that he knew had been hanging behind Hammond's desk when they'd stepped through the wormhole to Vis Uban, slid his hand over the soft curves of the funeral statue that had been given pride of place within a circle of candles in Teal'c's quarters, tugged at the lapis necklace that might have once belonged to an alien princess, but, he knew, had been wrapped in tissue and tucked into a pocket on a certain Major's TAC vest for months. The little round guy had been sitting on a pile of papers on Walter's desk; the cup covered with shiny stones sat beside a pile of legal pads on a table in the briefing room; the dreamcatcher had been hanging over a particular bed in the infirmary.

But the room was still … wrong. Cold. Stale. Lifeless. It could be a room in the SGC Museum of Alien Junk, lacking only the glass boxes that saved the priceless relics from the touch of sticky-fingered school children on a field trip. They all meant well – Carter, Teal'c, and the General. They all wanted to reach out, to prod a memory, to tie the newly resurrected archaeologist to this place, to them. Afraid, if they didn't, they'd lose him again. Jack glanced back at the box. Not so different from what he was doing himself, maybe.

Daniel needed to find himself again: somehow, Jack knew it. Prodding, pushing – it wouldn't work. Or, he thought, mouth tightened into a thin line, it might work too well. The blank eyes, face paled to white, fingers clutching at anything close enough to touch – Jack rubbed both hands over his face as if he could erase memories, too, with that simple gesture. Daniel had certainly been flushed with remembrance in the infirmary. Flooded, filled, swamped. Those blue eyes had torn holes in Jack, holes in places that had never really healed. He felt his hands clench into fists. If it had hit him that hard, cranked up the bile in his own stomach, what wounds had those memories reopened in Daniel's soul?

He closed his eyes for a moment. These things – he turned and raked them all with a searing glance before turning away - these things had been owned by Daniel Jackson. No, Jack shook his head, no, not owned; they'd been cherished, treasured, prized. For their history, their ties to ancient cultures, to alien civilizations with their roots in Earth's past. A part of his work, a testament to his discoveries, and, after his death … ascension … whatever, they'd been a piece of Daniel that could be seen and touched by the people he'd left behind. Held. Cherished.

Jack sat on the bed, long fingers lifting the lid from the cardboard box he'd had stashed under his bed in his on-base quarters. This one small box held the few things that were owned not by Daniel's mind, his intellect, his work, but by his heart. He sifted through the worn pages of the only archaeology texts written by Melburn and Clair Jackson and the worn wood of the cheap picture frame that held the only photo of Sha're. The rough curve of the marriage bowl took shape beneath his hands, the sharp edges of the envelope that held the few papers that had defined a life. On bad days – sometimes on good days – Jack had returned to this box to find his friend.

After a moment he placed the books on the bedside table and propped the picture of Daniel's dead wife beneath the lamp. Enough. Maybe more than enough. Sha're's dark eyes watched Jack accusingly as he closed the box and shoved it under the bed.

"Yeah, I know," he whispered. More sad memories. If flashes of Daniel's own death hurt him, evoking the devastating loss of his parents, of Sha're, would only tear more jagged, deeper wounds in Daniel's spirit.

"What do you want me to do?" Jack finally demanded of the woman frozen in the contented past when a long-haired geek lived happily ever after with an Egyptian princess. Before the loss of innocence. Before slavery to the Goa'uld. Before the happily ever after turned to blood and sand. He wiped a hand across his eyes. They were a part of Daniel, too, and Jack didn't have the right to deny his friend these memories.

The phone buzzed urgently on the wall and Jack straightened, frowning.

"O'Neill," he snapped.

"Sir, Doctor Jackson has left the infirmary."

"What?" Siler. Daniel's official shadow. "Are you telling me a recently dead, ascended, _descended_ amnesiac is wandering the halls of the SGC - _alone_?" Fear and frustration warred for dominance, churning Jack's gut to violence.

"Sir-"

"Never mind, Siler," Jack sighed. "Just… find him - quietly."

He slammed the phone against the wall and yanked the door open, turning for one last look at the stage that had been set for his damaged best friend. Artifacts, memories, the last possessions of an abruptly shattered life. Jack had never been good at jigsaw puzzles. Gluing all those broken pieces together again – the result might not quite match the picture anymore. He shut off the light and closed the door with a soft click.


	17. P is for Possession

"P is for Possession"

by marzipan77

GEN

SG-1

The next installment in the Descension Fic series 'Renaissance' written for the Alphabet Challenge on Stargate Drabbles.

Summary: What did Daniel still own? What did Jack?

Feedback: It would be great to hear from you!

He wandered the empty halls, hands skimming the smooth, grey surfaces, lingering momentarily on the raised lettering of the signs next to doors closed tightly against him. The colored stripes along the floor and walls drew Daniel's gaze, and he aimlessly followed one and then another, until his path ended at silver doors where three corridors connected. One hand slipped into his pocket and he frowned as it came away empty. A few moments later his feet led him to darkly shadowed stairs, the metallic clang of his boots ringing strangely in the narrow passage.

The sense of distance seemed to recede as Daniel moved forward, as if his motion solidified the world around him, made him a part of the scene, a piece that fit within this puzzle of silence and uniformity. Without the insistence of those that had collected him from his lonely existence on Vis Uban, no longer drawn by their need or their memories, he was finally going forward, traveling _toward_ something, something that waited for him. A place… perhaps even a home of sorts. His being reached out to search for a familiar aroma, dark, burnt, the texture of rough stone, or the crinkle of thin, musty pages spread beneath his fingers.

He hurried, the thrill of discovery fueling his pace. He knew if he could find this place, fit himself back within it, the memories might come and the man he'd once been might be tempted to return and take possession of it once again. Take possession of this human shell that still echoed with painful emptiness, still rocked with every hurtful memory that came and went with such throbbing swiftness, leaving him afraid and yet aching for more.

Light spilled out into the hallway up ahead and he stopped, unsettled. Too bright – it was too bright. Faint music drifted through the open door, soft, spinning, gathering momentum, and then thinning to repeat an almost recognized melody. His mind followed it, anticipated the next rush of sound and his fingers itched to touch smooth white keys before a strange feeling of irritation, of annoyance, began to writhe in his belly. Daniel frowned, but his feet moved him slowly towards that spark of memory, towards the promise of a place to rest.

Daniel's fierce grip on the door frame hurt his fingers, dug metal corners into his flesh. No. This was wrong. His stare swept the space, buffeted by foreign shapes and harsh, brutal shafts of brilliance where he'd expected soft shadows and the smell of parchment and ink. He'd expected – he'd needed – to find his fit. But not – not…

"Doctor Jackson?"

Fingers clicked a switch and the music died. Daniel felt his eyes narrow, his gaze stabbing at the pale face above the black shirt where eyes widened with something like dread, like fear.

… "_Given the chance, you would deny us this technology?" … another way, there has to be another way … "What's happening?" … "This device could explode!" … The smell of ozone, wires snapping in electrical bursts, the taste of terror … "Tomas!" … do something, he had to do something, the explosion would kill everyone, all of them, devastate the entire continent … no time, no time … "Doctor Jackson – no! Doctor Jackson!" …_

"Doctor Jackson?"

Suddenly Daniel was next to the other man, one hand clamped tightly around his arm. His heart beat thickly, pounding, his breath ragged pants. "No. Stop it! This isn't yours – it isn't yours!" His throat stung with his own harsh shouting, the man's skin burned against his hand and he shoved him away and snatched it back, holding it clenched against his chest, feeling the skin blacken and peel.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, Doctor Jackson, please…" The man stumbled backwards, out of Daniel's reach, his face twisted in grief, in remorse, until finally stopped by a set of broad shelves holding dozens of small, cloth-covered volumes.

The room seemed to expand and contract between blinks of Daniel's eyes, first bright and cold, then dark, warm, and inviting. He couldn't catch his breath and lurched towards a couch that dissolved under his hands. Fingers – whole and unmarked, or skinless and bloody - scrabbled and grabbed for purchase as he fell to his knees. Kind hands held him, guided his head down until he could draw air into his lungs, until his vision cleared and steadied and he could lift shaking hands to wipe away the wetness on his cheeks.

"Are you okay? I'll - I'll call Colonel O'Neill or Doctor Frasier. Can you sit up?"

The words flittered quickly past, filled with doubt. Daniel shuddered, pulling himself back from those turbulent memories of death and destruction that danced just out of sight, from roiling emotions aimed at the young man that crouched before him – resentment, anger, pity, loss. He snagged a black sleeve to hold the other man still and shook his head. "No. I'm fine. I'm fine," he insisted, his voice sounding strangely calm to his own ears. Fine – a meaningless word meant to soothe the hearer, something that was suddenly important, vital, to Daniel.

Hands helped him to a chair and then hovered anxiously as he straightened, eyes closing to shut out the unfamiliar and hideously unwelcome sights. He forced himself to ignore the cries that still rose up within him, shouts and curses, claims of "Mine, mine, mine!" that threatened to drive him back towards unthinking violence, away from control. Whatever he'd been searching for, whatever feeling of home, of belonging that he'd been chasing was not to be found here. The inward cries turned to unvoiced wails and fits of childish weeping.

"I'm sorry," he muttered, flashing a smile without raising his eyes.

"Don't –" The stifled gasp, a gutteral sound of shock or denial, made Daniel open his eyes.

The young man had been reaching towards him, shaking his head, only to startle to stillness as the tall, silver-haired figure appeared in the doorway. Jack.

"Daniel." The warm, dark gaze rested on him for a moment before it turned cold. "Jonas."

A flash of fury scorched across the empty space, directed at the younger man – Jonas – and he flinched backwards. The tall officer drew in a long breath, carefully stuck both hands into his pockets, and leaned against the wall in mock casualness.

"You know, ole Doc Frasier just hates it when her patients disappear on her." He jerked his chin and Daniel found himself rising, anxious to go.

"Colonel-"

One hand rose. "Later, Jonas." A trace of unspoken apology lingered after the words.

The military officer ushered him into the silent hallway, one strong hand steering firmly on his shoulder. Daniel turned back, searching one last time, but the warm room peppered with shadows, the taste of dark, bitter liquid, and the sound of a pen scratching against paper was gone. Between the bright light and the earnest anguish on Jonas' face, the scent of home had vanished.

"It's okay."

He searched the eyes of the man at his side, saw the half-smile, felt the hesitant connection. Maybe. Maybe it was.


	18. Q is for Quickening

"Q is for Quickening"

by marzipan77

GEN

SG-1

The next installment in the Descension Fic series 'Renaissance' written for the Alphabet Challenge on Stargate Drabbles.

Summary: Jack and Daniel – a quickening of memory.

Feedback: Love it!

… _Despair… fear … loss … the unfamiliar feel of heavy cloth against his skin, green fatigues he'd hoped never to wear again … memories of pale, lifeless faces – children, really – robes bloody against the stone floor … she was gone, stolen … his fault … breath felt like flaming knives in his chest … they'd all touched him at the end, touched him as if he was precious … they were wrong-_

"_Hey."_

_Brown eyes mirrored his sorrow, echoed his bottomless grief …_

It was just an intersection of grey corridors, identical to a dozen others he'd already passed in his short journey from the infirmary. He'd probably walked through it, unheeding, only a few minutes earlier. Now it struck him motionless, his mind filled with words and images, with smothering feelings of panic and confusion, and an ugly, yawning hole where something – someone – had been ripped from him by violence. He watched his fingers reach out to touch the rough wall, blinked up at the dim lighting, the stripes blurring into muddled tangles that did nothing to lead him from a maze of memories into his own identity.

He almost expected to see a hunched figure here, barely holding himself up against the wall, hands deep in the pockets of ill-fitting clothes, long hair falling forward to hide his face. Alone.

… "_You're not in any position to make demands, Jackson" …_

The man who'd called him 'son.' Hammond. He'd been there as soon as Daniel had stepped from the shimmering veil of blue within the stone ring – the Stargate. His eyes had smiled, welcomed him. But, at another time, on that same metal ramp populated by the dead and the injured, that same man's eyes had been cruel, cold. 'Jackson.' Him. Robed in sand, long-haired, demanding. Him. And beside him-

… _Tall, fierce, his own shoulders held straight against losses he refused to forget, refused to acknowledge …_

Jack.

Daniel turned and met the same brown eyes. The lines around them had deepened, but the same shadows of loss hovered behind the dogged intensity and the easy humor.

… "_Hey" …_

"Hey – you okay?"

A familiar weight on his shoulder transferred warmth from Daniel's skin to flow deep into his bones, suddenly filling up the emptiness that had been all that had defined him since his awakening. It quieted his ache to understand, soothed his need to remember, and held him, breathless, in the tender grip of affection. One word – one touch -

… "_Hey" …_

… "_They don't know what to do with me, and" …_

"And I don't know what to do with myself," Daniel moved his lips in tandem with the heartbroken ghost of his memory, finding himself stepping easily into the younger man's shadow.

A soft snort preceded a smile that subtracted years from those eyes. "Well, as much as I'd like to get out of here and share a couple of beers, we're gonna have to wait." The hand on his shoulder shook him gently. "Warner was always a pushover, but Doc Frasier is a whole 'nother story."

Jack ushered Daniel down the hallway, their steps matching in a familiar rhythm.

… "_Have a little party, did ya?" …_

… "_This is going straight to my head" …_

… "_You're a cheaper date than my wife" …_

A familiar rhythm of words, as well. Easy, shallow quips that hid deeper messages sent and received, that allowed them to fill the vacuum between them with offers of comfort and support never spoken aloud. The sting of loss still bit, its teeth sharp and jagged, tearing at him - at them both, Daniel realized – but once, in a quiet room, next to a stone fireplace, holding a bottle in clammy, shaking hands, a fragile peace had begun to grow up around it, strengthened and nurtured by a friendship rarely examined, rarely defined. Daniel felt an answering smile on his own lips.

"I'm not sure I like beer," he offered.

A shoulder brushed his. "You? You _love_ beer. Just something else I'm gonna have to remind you about."

"Like the fifty bucks you mentioned before?"

"See, I knew you'd remember the important stuff." Hands sketched patterns in the air in front of them. "Not welching on bets. Beer. Hockey." A momentary hesitation, a slight tensing in the lanky form beside him warned Daniel that the next casually uttered words were important. "My name."

… _a painfully stiff figure, expression frozen between sorrow and rage, short hair bristling, uniform starched, smoke curling in front of narrowed eyes … "I'm in charge - Colonel Jack O'Neill, here," … a brilliant smile, hands reaching to draw him close in a desperate, thankful hug … "O'Neill, with two 'Ls'" … panic, flight, a dark room, a crouching figure … "do you want to kill me?" … "I'm Jack, it means-" … waking from too many journeys through darkness to the same face … "Daniel?" …_

Jack.

Samantha Carter called him 'sir,' or 'colonel.' Teal'c called him 'O'Neill.' Daniel knew the connections they all shared ran soul deep; he knew it, even without memory, without the wealth of past events and images that shaped friendships and built unbreakable bonds. But his bond with this man ran the deepest, through life and death, past gaping wounds both physical and emotional. Trampled by loss, shredded by anger, frozen by distance, yet forged stronger by time and respect. And love.

Never easy, but comfortable. Never simple, but firm. Never without cost, but held so dear. Daniel carefully paced in the footsteps of that younger self and grasped tightly to that bond, to the lifeline offered so casually so long ago by one broken man to another.

He wanted to stop, to reach out and look into those dark eyes, to speak words of gratitude and wonder and friendship. But his hands dived into his pockets, shoulders shrugging, and his mouth closed before a breath escaped. No. That wasn't their way.

"Hmm," he started, drawing his brows together as if in fierce concentration, "it begins with a 'J'."


	19. R is for Ransom

"R is for Ransom"

by marzipan77

GEN

SG-1

The next installment in the Descension Fic series 'Renaissance' written for the Alphabet Challenge on Stargate Drabbles.

Summary: Daniel looks for the key to unlock his memories.

Feedback: Pretty please?

"You tell me."

The door closed quietly and Daniel was alone, the softly spoken words had been whispered, almost like Jack had been praying, the natural amusement in the man's dark eyes smothered by a wealth of conflicting emotions. Or perhaps it was the new glasses that reflected a depth of turmoil on the older man's face. It had seemed simpler before the scenes became brilliant and razor-sharp – shades of grey allowing the tenuous connections, the hazy fumbles for purchase on a slippery foundation to feel firm. But the light conversation had died, the silence growing into a chasm between the two as Jack led him here. Had Jack shut Daniel away here in an attempt to shield him, for a time, from an overload of painful memories, or for his own peace of mind?

He was tired. Tired of searching his mind, tired of stumbling, tired of begging for familiarity. And the images and sounds and scents had jumbled within him, leaving him confused and defeated, pain growing behind his eyes.

… _no spark now, no life in eyes that once warmed him through, now staring haughtily through him … dead eyes beneath dark curls and a crown of gold … pain, blinding pain in his head, and flooding grief …_

Exhaustion fell on him with leaden swiftness, deadening the sensation of thick, curly hair and silken skin beneath his hands that had erupted along his nerves with one glance at the framed picture on the table. Thoughts glazed and foggy, Daniel dropped to the bed, frowning at the walls that circled him, at this unexpected dead end on his journey - one small room, a few books and other items scattered within, and a firmly closed door trapped him in his own personal limbo. He needed to escape, to follow the breadcrumb trail of memory, to find the real and true within the doubt, no matter how much it hurt. To find himself.

Arrom still hovered, plaintively reminding him with every remembered sorrow or flash of guilt of a life of perfect namelessness that awaited him on Vis Uban. And Daniel Jackson – Daniel Jackson was barely balanced, teetering, between hope and regret, tasting a hint of the connection that Jack and the others offered, mental fingers grasping futilely after every suggestion of memory. He closed his eyes and dragged air into lungs almost too tired to expand, his head bowed as if to take up the prayer that Jack had begun.

The slight weight of the metal frames falling to rest in his lap startled him from a doze. Thin, fragile looking things. Daniel twisted them between his fingers. Their cool embrace, metal against his temples, had brought a rush of bright, vibrant images. Sunlight sparkling through shaking leaves, each jagged edge of green sharply outlined. Crisp letters taking shape in flowing lines on a stark white page. A curve came into being, created by his own hand, growing into careful diagrams and tiny concise notes of explanation. If only the lenses could focus his mind's eye on the past as easily.

Daniel stood and stretched, unwilling to give in to the pull of sleep, the comforting lull of oblivion. He fumbled the glasses back into place one-handed and stepped slowly around the large bed, bending to examine, reaching out to touch an item here and there to try to provoke a feeling, a thought. A few moments later he found himself at the door, one hand pressed flat against the metal surface as if it represented the blindfold drawn across his past and just one pull would reveal it all. He raised his other hand to take hold of the knob and found the framed picture still gripped there.

She was not a fragile beauty – the frank gaze stared out from a strong face, lips parted as if caught in mid word. Somehow he knew that it was that very combination that had doomed her – strength, beauty, a fierce spirit. And him. He'd also played his part.

Daniel moved back to the bed, cradling the picture in his lap. The books at his bedside and this photograph - his personal things, Jack had called them. Not many. Just one photograph. He slid a thumb along her jaw line, across her cheek, feeling skin there warmed by the desert sun. He closed his eyes and lifted his chin to seek out the same warmth, the tickle of sand against his face, the spicy smell of cooking fires, the chatter of the boys playing games of hunt and seek. His muscles relaxed and he curled against the soft spread, his mind hunting and seeking, searching for the key to unlock the door to his memories.

… _dancing … there was dancing tonight at the fire … the high pitched squeals of women's laughter … the beat of drums … the boy with bright, brown eyes and long braids blushed and grinned at the praises of his elders … the old men chanted stories of the battle … and she came to him._

"_Danyel."_

_She was there, pulling him from his place in the shadows, leading him towards the swaying and jumping villagers, eyes daring him to refuse her._

"_My Danyel, let us honor you."_

_An old man threw his arms out and roared the crowd to silence. He placed one hand on Daniel's shoulder._

"_We are free, free from the demon god, free from death and slavery and ignorance." He shook Daniel, making him stumble, and the people laughed, eyes alight. "And this, my good son, has taught us the way!"_

_The shouts and shrieks drowned out Daniel's denials as the people swarmed around him, touching his light hair, pulling him into embraces, twirling him among them until they'd all had a chance to touch, to speak, to smile and share their joy. Finally, they released him to spin from the circle of their new dance to rest in the strong arms of the braided youth._

"_Danyel – brother – you will be happy here, with us." A trace of doubt bled through, turning the statement into a question, hesitant on the young man's tongue._

_Slender arms wound around his waist from behind and he felt her chin rest between his shoulder blades. "He will be happy – we will be happy. Always."_

_Her voice fell away into darkness, thickened in rage, warm eyes blazing gold._

"_Sha're!"…_

Daniel started awake, blinking. "Sha're," he whispered to himself. The slender arms that had wrapped him so protectively, the warmth against his back, the tang of her sweat dissolving slowly into the stale air. But he remembered… Daniel remembered.


	20. S is for Strength

"S is for Strength"

by marzipan77

GEN

SG-1

The next installment in the Descension Fic series 'Renaissance' written for the Alphabet Challenge on Stargate Drabbles.

Summary: Daniel needs the strength of another to help him along the road.

Feedback: Can't live without it!

"She's dead." Daniel had known it all along, with an understanding deeper than memory and vaster than the grief that held him tight. A grief that was echoed in the dark eyes of the alien warrior before him, the man he'd sought out within the dim tunnels, whom he'd found at the end of his stumbling search. "I loved her very much." The realization slid through his heart like an icy spear.

The candlelight glistened as the bald head bowed, weighed by far more than the sympathy of one friend to another. Daniel frowned, the ache within him suddenly growing to encompass more than just his own soul.

The pain beneath the hard-won control on Jack's face, the longing in the intense blue eyes of Samantha Carter, the general's hope and the doctor's joy – Daniel's need to recapture his past could no longer be the cautious personal journey of one man groping through the darkness. He needed more – they all deserved more.

He turned the photograph face down and placed it carefully on the table, out of sight but still seared indelibly into his mind's eye. Frustration shook him as the scenes and memories slipped away, hiding again within him. Why? Why would this Oma, this Ascended being choose to punish him like this? To bury every thought, every action, beneath a heavy coverstone of emptiness?

The other man answered, hesitantly, as if afraid to speak, and Daniel watched the growing unease on his broad face.

"Tell me about Anubis." The name tasted hot and bitter, laced with a sense of grief so raw it ate at Daniel's soul. "Why'd I break the rules to fight him?" Daniel was filled with so many 'whys' as well as the absolute conviction that it was this solid, silent warrior who could help him back to himself.

Teal'c leaned back, distancing himself from the question. "Do you not believe it wise to remember on your own accord?"

Daniel clenched his teeth. Please. No more stumbling blindly, searching for any hint, any trace of memory. Jack had locked him away, Sam had demanded, pushed. And the others couldn't seem to see him past their own emotions. "No. I need to know why this is happening to me."

Uncertainty warred with compassion in the warm dark eyes.

"Please, Teal'c." Daniel would beg, he'd plead, even in the face of what he knew was the Jaffa's legendary, mountainous resolve.

… _the grimace pulled down the expressive mouth, smears of paint decorating his face and body as if his guilt was printed in every line … the staff weapon heavy in Daniel's hands, he'd watched the honest acceptance – the forgiveness – written in Teal'c's bearing as he stared at him through the thin passageway of Thor's Hammer … the fierce pride as Teal'c stumbled – finally – from the unstable event horizon clutching a massive weapon and his own accomplished revenge …_

"Daniel Jackson – others believe it would be harmful to force you to remember your human life," the large hands tightened and released against his knees, "and I would gladly die myself rather than bring you any more harm."

Daniel carefully lowered himself to sit within the flickering forest of candle flames, drawing his spine up straight, settling his hands on his knees, and breathing in the calm that expanded around the warrior's being. "I believe that, Teal'c."

One eyebrow rode the fragrant smoke upwards. "Perhaps you should not."

… _the stench of fear and despair nearly overwhelmed him, his eyes focused on the armored figure grasping Jack's arm … "The moment the child is born, the Goa'uld within Sha're will re-emerge" … "I said I'm not leaving her, Teal'c!" … blinding pain between his eyes … scorched human flesh … the golden glow of possession receding to leave his wife's dead eyes staring up at him … _

Loss. Anger. Bottomless grief. Blame. From the stark regret on Teal'c's face Daniel saw that his emotions were scrawled in every line and muscle, his throat tight, breathing loud in the silence between them. His vision narrowed to see only the pinpoints of flame reflected in the Jaffa's accepting stare.

… "_you must continue your journey through the Chappa'ai, and you must forgive Teal'c" … slender arms wrapped him in love and small hands brushed the hair from his forehead … "You must hear me, my Danyel" … a bolt of energy took her from him forever … "you must forgive Teal'c" …_

She was dead – buried beneath the sands of her homeland – soul as light as a feather. She was finally free.

… "_you must forgive Teal'c" …_

Daniel felt the wetness on his cheeks, heard the gasping sobs that shook him, let the grief pour out through every nerve and pore. He blinked to clear his sight, head back, twisting right and left, the pain that wrapped him in misery and failure slowly unwinding, falling away. Vision finally clear in the candlelight, he could see matching stains on the other's face where he knelt before him.

"You did the right thing, Teal'c." A younger, stronger voice joined his and the Jaffa's head bowed for a long, long time.

They talked quietly until morning and Daniel's memories began to take form and substance even as the candles melted to indistinct shapes and lumps and the air grew heavy with smoke. Laughter joined with grief as Teal'c told the story of an innocent, young scholar and an embittered warrior/slave who had been caught up in a friendship unlooked for. Daniel remembered the comfort of his friend's presence and carefully filed the fleeting thoughts and bright, vibrant scenes away with his other few memories.

Jack and Sam and Teal'c. A hardened Air Force colonel, twice retired. A brilliant, ambitious scientist. A rebel alien bearing a form of the enemy in his gut. And him – Daniel Jackson – a stubborn linguist who'd solved a two thousand year old puzzle. SG-1. It must have been quite a team. Warmth seemed to suffuse every unfilled space within him.

A quick knock at the door quieted them as Teal'c snuffed out the last flame. The pale, eager face that poked into the room startled, eyes wide, at the sight of Daniel stretched out on the floor.

"Jonas Quinn." Teal'c's voice held no censure, just a small measure of encouragement.

"Uh … sorry to interrupt."

Daniel felt a few more memories shift into place. A passing sense of futility. A brief splash of regret. He pushed to his feet.

"It's okay," he replied softly, nodding. Things had changed. Some losses were permanent.

"It's just – well, there's a briefing in about an hour and I wanted … uh …" The young man's gaze darted towards Teal'c, "I mean, for me and the colonel, and …"

Daniel smiled. "For SG-1."

Teal'c's broad hand lay gently on his shoulder. "Daniel Jackson."

Some losses were permanent. But, Daniel realized, looking up into his friend's strong gaze, some were not.


	21. T is for Translation

"T is for Translation"

by marzipan77

GEN

SG-1

The next installment in the Descension Fic series 'Renaissance' written for the Alphabet Challenge on Stargate Drabbles.

Summary: If the past is prologue, how does Arrom translate into Dr. Daniel Jackson?

Feedback: Thanks for the wonderful notes – please send chocolate. :D

He sat, legs crossed, back braced against the side of the bed within the quarters he'd been assigned, a room that, while filled with things familiar and strange that had touched his life as Daniel Jackson and had, in turn, touched others, felt empty, lifeless, cold. His fingers swept up and down the soft fabric that pooled in his lap, tracing the intricate pattern, smoothing the short fringe, and folding the long scarf over and over again around his hands. It warmed his skin, brought with it memories of dark, caring eyes, bright with intelligence, that had searched out his deepest pain, his hidden well of loneliness, and had drawn him, unwilling, into the light. Iranya's scarf. Its blues and whites reminded him of the skies of Vis Uban – and of a mother's love and longing for what she'd lost.

These items that had been left for him – books and artifacts and jewels – they were other reminders of loss from the people here, people who had lost a friend, a brother, and, yes, perhaps a son. This Daniel Jackson who had played a role in their lives, who had been a voice of conscience and a hand of help and encouragement, who had opened the door to the stars and had imagined a galaxy free from slavery and death. Teal'c had told him stories of this man, this explorer, and Daniel knew in his heart that the strong but gentle man spoke truth even as he wanted to deny it. But Arrom, the simple refugee, sat silently within him, bewildered.

Doctor Daniel Jackson belonged here. Deep within this mountain, surrounded by concrete walls and crumbling scrolls and the mingled breath and sweat of the fiercely loyal men and woman who dwelt here, worked here, lived and died here. He belonged in some basic, fundamental way, felt roots that extended deeper than the tunnels and that spread out towards the stars. Stepping through the Stargate had completed one journey for Arrom and had begun a hundred – a thousand – others for Daniel Jackson. Left naked and nameless on a far-off world among an accepting and welcoming people, Arrom had been born – had provided the gaping wounds of his soul with time: time to heal. And now, he was finished.

Somehow, while Daniel had been gone from this life, living among the energy of the universe, filled with knowledge and power, the skin and bone and soul that had defined his being had waited for him to return. Here. To this place and to these people. To begin again his interrupted journey, to fill a hole, to fulfill a purpose. A purpose beyond the comprehension of a blue robed, broken man within a candlelit tent.

A few minutes after Jonas had left, still fumbling for explanations and assurances, the others had arrived. Jack stood straighter, the smooth planes of his face relaxing into affectionate smiles and a soul-deep sense of peace. Sam – warm and sure, blue eyes bright with a certainty that flowed directly from within. They'd been anxious to touch, Jack's shoulder brushing his, one hand clasped briefly to Daniel's cheek; Sam happy to take his hand and walk along at his side as they led him to a room with one table filled with food. Old patterns emerged, familiar sounding stories, names, and places filling up some empty corners within Daniel's mind. They'd been both anxious and relieved when Teal'c related how the two had spent the night, and some of the awkwardness between them all had fallen away, dropped into the warm, rippling pool of shared memory.

Led back to this room, their words had died away. Jack had eyed the silent airman outside his door with an aggressive intensity before crooking a half smile at Daniel and sauntering away, both hands in his pockets. Sam had wriggled her fingers, following in his shadow. Teal'c had been the last to leave him, and Daniel had been deeply touched when the large man had grasped him by one forearm and drawn him in to his chest.

They wanted him here.

But, still, whatever rules governed Daniel Jackson's resurrection – if there could be such things – held him at arm's length from the answers he yearned for, from the power to find his way forward.

There was a hand at work here that was not his own – that much he understood. Teal'c's reverence for the Ascended beings who had welcomed Daniel at the moment of his death colored the Jaffa's thinking, but the connection was clear, obvious. These people, this SG-1 had been drawn to the world of Daniel's abandonment at a specific time for a specific purpose – for him, to find him. These beings, so far removed from physical life, from human existence and frailty, who moved galaxies and governed heavenly forces, were concerned with _him_. One human life – one life still intricately connected with these others.

Daniel had to know.

He carefully folded the blue scarf and placed it among his Earthly treasures, his fingers trailing over its surface almost reluctantly before he turned and opened the door.

"Airman?"

The young man seemed surprised to be addressed directly. "Yes, sir?"

"I need to attend the briefing – SG-1's briefing." Daniel let the door fall closed behind him. Yes, one must study the past to understand the present, to fully embrace the future – that was an idea at the very center of his existence. But right now, the past could wait. He was here – now – for a purpose. 'Placed here for such a time as this,' his memory supplied. He could not wait on the future; the next step on this journey must be his own.

"Uh, I don't…" The airman hesitated, uncertain.

"It's okay," Daniel smiled, eyes wide open as he turned towards the hallway. "I know the way."


	22. U is for Us

"U is for Us"

by marzipan77

GEN

SG-1

The next installment in the Descension Fic series 'Renaissance' written for the Alphabet Challenge on Stargate Drabbles.

Summary: Connections and bonds made and broken.

Feedback: It is remarkably important to me. This was a very, very difficult chapter to write and stay true to Daniel's character.

It was Jack who accompanied him to the base archives. It was Jack who chose file after file, handing them off to the startled Airman who followed Daniel wherever he went, and ordered him to haul the heavy load back to Daniel's assigned room. It was Jack who quirked a half-smile and muttered disconnected words and phrases like "little grey butts," "head suckers," "meaning of life stuff," and "yeahsureyoubetcha," all the while flicking surreptitious glances at Daniel as if waiting for a reaction. And, it had been Jack who, back in the briefing room, had seemed to be reaching for a sense of normalcy – a familiarly edged bantering that had somehow both warmed him and infected him with a childish need to irritate and provoke right back.

Sam's brilliant smile, Teal'c's raised eyebrow, and the general's obvious patience buoyed him up, but it was the flash of connection in Jack's dark eyes that had given Daniel the confidence to leave Arrom behind and assume the mantle of Daniel Jackson there in a roomful of his peers. It was an unspoken invitation, as if Jack had reached out to grasp him and manhandle him back into position within the puzzle of SG-1. And the light taunts and empty threats had smoothed down the rough edges of Daniel's memories, softened the claustrophobic awkwardness of the sky-less, cement walled base and the overwhelming expectations, and had solidified Daniel's resolve to pursue his new/old life as tenaciously as his team pursued their enemy.

The tablet – its meaning now obvious, transparent to him where once, he knew, his understanding would have been hard won and tenuous. The Ancient writing touched him deep within – past Arrom, past Daniel, down to the depths of a soul that had once stretched out in limitless space. It told him a story of protection, of a weapon that would guard them from their foes. The Goa'uld. Anubis. A being so powerful that Jack had followed the spectre of a dead man who promised a way to defeat him.

They had defeated others – many others, Teal'c had told him. Their team, this group of four that somehow included him. He had to know, had to live up to the fierce loyalty that Jack had reminded him of in the briefing room. It was there, somewhere, within his memories. Daniel clenched his fists and closed his eyes, searching the blank recesses for anything, any connection to the limitless knowledge he must have had as one of the Ascended. Jack said he'd known the answer …

Heaviness, the plummeting of his heart, a surge of dizziness, the sensation of an icy breeze against his skin. Daniel felt the blackness closing in.

"Jack."

"Hey-" Feet shuffled, papers splatted against the cement, and a strong grip steadied him against the waves of memory. "Geez, Daniel." Hands eased him to the floor.

… _a face without a face … energy bound by matter … dark laughter taunting … gut-wrenching frustration, helplessness … "Death will only offer a temporary escape. I can revive you again and again…a thousand times if need be" … brown eyes, haunted, defeated, dead, beneath a scarred brow … no, it can't be true, she couldn't have … "Stop!" … the power was there, within him, surging into being, fueled by his righteous rage … "Strike me down. Do it now or I will destroy Abydos" …_

Strangling, held down by powerful, unseen hands, unable to move, watching through lidless eyes as his home, his people, were destroyed, murdered, burned away to nothingness.

"No! Don't do this!" The words blistered deep scars into his throat, seared the very air around him. He fought, lashed out with limbs that suddenly had weight and mass and strength. A flesh-covered arm connected.

A low grunt. "Daniel!"

Weight lay across his legs of bone and blood, struggled to restrain muscled arms. He clenched actual teeth and reached for his power, only to find … emptiness … a scent of energy, a wisp of potential, a firm, sorrowful denial … gone.

"Daniel! Open your eyes!"

Finding he had eyes, he obeyed. The same scarred brow, those same dark eyes, now bright with fear, worry. Alive.

"Jack?"

A puff of expelled breath warmed his cheek. "What the hell was that, Daniel?" Strong, cutting words that spoke of distress and grief.

"Did I hurt you?"

A smirk masked Jack's fear. "You? Hurt me? Oh, I don't think so." His grip loosened. "Scared the crap out of me, maybe."

"I'm sorry," Daniel sighed, blinking the reality of his physical existence back into place. "I have to remember, it must be there somewhere, the way to defeat him, but it's all so strange, disconnected, overwhelming." He smiled. "It trips the internal circuit breaker." Jack watched, his anxiety almost veiled by false impatience at the explanation. A long moment passed. "Can I get up now?"

Jack seemed to be thinking it over. "I don't know, you back with us?" A few seconds later he rolled away, stood, and stretched out one hand.

Daniel considered carefully. Was he? Had his time among the stars divorced him from this human reality? Or was this, too, a choice he must make. A final step towards one fork in a path that diverged before him.

Perhaps the power to control these surges of memory – or to stop them – rested within him. Instead of clinging to the past, trying to force his mind to relive, to remember, maybe his new path was one of exploration, of uncertainty, of trust. Maybe he didn't have to know everything right now. Maybe the thoughts, the knowledge of an Ascended being couldn't fit comfortably inside his human skull, and the answers he kept searching for - why he'd come back, how he'd come back – were beyond him. He frowned, denying it, but a whispered voice echoed in his mind, "You have already made this choice."

The actual images were evaporating, as if they were fading prints in an old photo album turning brown and pale from age until the faces were mere blurs and the times and places distant ghosts of his own creation. The minute by minute events of his Ascended existence were unimportant; those, he suddenly knew, he could live without. No, what was important, what was _truth_, was the feeling that had been growing within him ever since he'd seen three strange figures dressed in green on the planet of his exile. A feeling, he admitted to himself, of a deep, all-consuming bond.

He glanced up beyond the offered hand to the strong, decent, constant man above him. Jack – SG-1 – his friends, his family, these connections alone would spark the memories, would turn his foggy dreams into earthy reality. Daniel just had to be willing to let them.

His choice made, Daniel reached up and let Jack pull him to his feet, the vanishing images, words, and feelings telling him that he'd chosen well. A glowing hand seemed to touch his cheek, and the shadow of a smile colored by tears touched his heart as he held onto his friend's strong grip.

"I'm here, Jack. And I'm not going anywhere."


	23. V is for Venia

"V is for Venia"

by marzipan77

GEN

SG-1

The next installment in the Descension Fic series 'Renaissance' written for the Alphabet Challenge on Stargate Drabbles.

Summary: Venia: noun (_Latin_) grace, indulgence, favor, pardon, forgiveness.

Feedback: Thank you for all your comments! They are very, very encouraging.

The images grew as the words spread out on the pages before him. Danger. Injury. Loss. Fear. Pain of so many different definitions that it should have swallowed him, sent him scurrying back to the comforting emptiness of Arrom. No wonder Daniel Jackson had hidden, content to remain within a borrowed tent on an alien planet, surrounded by strangers. He felt the small smile curve over his lips and huffed a breath that rattled the mission report that lay across his lap. Then why did he feel so … calm? Right? At peace?

A warmth had begun to expand from the center of his being – its tendrils reaching out through nerves and tissues, filling him so completely that there didn't seem to be enough room for doubt or dismay. The words were true – they resonated, falling into place effortlessly – and he recognized the dread and anger and sorrow, the emotions that shaped each one, and, even more importantly, he believed them.

His own mission reports – notes written in his own hand. Daniel smoothed his fingers over the letters of languages that emerged fully known within his mind. The dusty syllables of tongues long changed here on planet Earth, of peoples stolen from their homes to become slaves of parasitic beings, of others so alien they defied the imagination. Asgard. Nox. Abydonian. Atoniik. Ancient.

"_Verba volant, scripta manet."_

A language no longer spoken here – except in ecclesiastical circles – had its roots with those who had given birth to mankind. It was poetic, really. Fitting. It brought the striving and suffering of humanity back, full circle, to its beginnings, just as the Ancients had brought Daniel Jackson back to his. _Vis maior_ – a higher power. He smiled again. He had frantically pursued knowledge all of his life, had hunted doggedly for the deeper, the most secret, the truth at the heart of all life: he had found all that and more. And had chosen to live within the frail limits of his human life instead.

A knock at his door barely distracted him from the tale before him – this time the words of the tale were not his own. They echoed with sadness, with grief, and told of a so-called hero whose words had failed him and who had made another choice: a choice to act, to protect, and, then, to stop fighting.

"Yea." His mind filled with frightening images and memories of pain, Daniel's eyes registered a man entering his small, dim room. He frowned, confused. That face, hung with a veil of stoicism, a mask of casual inquiry, should have been pale with fright. That man – now dressed in a familiar uniform with a patch on the shoulder that spoke of trust and loyalty – and had once been his – had crouched unmoving in a corner and shouted. And Daniel's mind shouted back.

"_Vulpem pilum mutat, non mores!"_

Daniel swallowed, clutching cold fingers to the open file. The warmth, the feeling of belonging, still lingered, but now it was laced with thin coils of anger. "Hey," he offered warily.

"Sorry to bother you."

Are you? Daniel asked himself. He hadn't finished reading this file, he hadn't come to the bitter end of the tale, but he knew it lacked a 'happily ever after' - at least for him. Or, perhaps, that chapter had not been written yet. But Jonas, Jonas had gained much. And here he stood, feet apart, hands grasping Daniel's journals, his office, and the very place Daniel had just discovered was the only place he truly belonged.

"Oh, you're not," Daniel muttered, fumbling the story of his death to one side. "I was just reading about … _us_, actually." Us. SG-1. Jack O'Neill, Samantha Carter, Teal'c, and Daniel Jackson. And, ironically, Jonas Quinn.

The Kelownan stilled for a second as if preparing himself to address Daniel's pointed remark, but Daniel saw the moment pass.

"You said that Anubis was part Ascended. That the Ancients tried to send him back to our level of existence but failed and now he's trapped somewhere in between."

Daniel's eyes narrowed. "Yeah, so I've heard," he answered dryly. Jack had told him. It was written here – somewhere – Daniel's gaze flickered over the scattered files. Why had this man sought him out to state the obvious?

"Anubis wouldn't know everything there is to know about the Ancients then, right? Otherwise he would have already found the lost city or …"

Daniel held up one hand to halt his stammering. "Look I know I was able to read that tablet, but…" He shook his head. The memories of his Ascension were gone, beyond his reach. He'd accepted that. Language was all that remained.

"Oh, I'm just thinking out loud, here."

He felt the furrows between his eyes deepen, the anxiety rearing up from its quiescence within him. What did he want? A sounding board? A research assistant? A friend? Daniel lifted his head. Or, perhaps, what Jonas really sought was to remind himself that this newly returned orphan of the stars was no threat to him, or this new SG-1. That he still mattered, and still had something to offer.

Jonas took one step nearer, eyes flashing anxiously. "If Anubis were to accidentally find the tablet chances are he's not going to make the same mistake I did."

Mistake? Uncertainty fluttered in Daniel's belly. He remembered the joy on his friends faces, the way they'd clustered around him, Jack's looming threat as Daniel stumbled out of the room that had once been his office, the easy way he'd been welcomed home. The fear he sensed within this room was not all his own. "I – I don't know," he stuttered. He slid his gaze away from the Kelownan's earnest face.

"But if we were to make a replica of the tablet, you know, change what it says…"

Worry colored the rushed words, a sort of verbal flailing for purchase. Daniel's thoughts flew, but still held tightly to the anchoring point in the here and now that had grounded him in hope. Was that what Jonas needed now? A reminder of his welcome? He opened his eyes and blinked back the unexpected moisture there. "Why?" he whispered. Why? Why him? Surely Jonas didn't expect that kind of reassurance, that acceptance from _Daniel_?

Suddenly, the energy that had seemed to animate Jonas leaked away, leaving the young man standing before him in a green uniform that didn't quite fit, emotions skulking out from behind his genial mask to paint dark shadows under his eyes and creases into his brow. "I – Doctor Jackson, I." He swallowed, the awkward movement of his throat drying Daniel's. A smile flashed across his face and then was gone. "I don't know what to say to you," he finally admitted.

Daniel placed one hand on the closed file, the one that told the tale of Jonas Quinn and Daniel Jackson. Of a comrade, friend, brother who had been lost, and the alien who had come after. "You –" Daniel shook his head.

"I was the one who should have died."

Daniel stared, eyes wide open, but saw, not the awkward man before him, but a dark-haired beauty lying beneath a tent, a wheezing colleague puffed up with pride in his discoveries, a man and woman crushed beneath a stone. And then other voices thick with tears, with guilt, with self-hate, echoing the words in many times and many places – Sam. Teal'c. Jack. Himself.

"I was the one who should have died."

Anger and blame fell away, leaving Daniel with the bitter taste of grief, with the fleeting desire to avenge, to hurt, to wound where he had been wounded, or, at least, to remain aloof, unmoved by Jonas' fear. A moment later, it, too, was gone.

"Jonas." He reached for gentleness, quiet. Daniel bowed his head once and then stood to face this stranger, this alien who had made his own painful journey. Not like his, not into death, but still… While Daniel's anchor held him here, firm and staunch and solid, this man's had now been torn away. He straightened his shoulders and offered all he could – his hand.

"_Vade in pace."_

Latin translations:

_Verba volant, scripta manet – _words fly away but the written remains.

_Vulpem pilum mutat, non mores – _a fox may change its fur, not its tricks_._

_Vade in pace – _go in peace_._


	24. W is for Weight

"W is for Weight"

by marzipan77

GEN

SG-1

The next installment in the Descension Fic series 'Renaissance' written for the Alphabet Challenge on Stargate Drabbles.

Summary: "The weight of the world is love." Allen Ginsberg

Feedback: Hope you're still reading!

It happened wherever he went now. Sidelong glances. Sudden silences. Open stares. Daniel kept his head down and hurried through the underground corridors, pretending indifference as if oblivious to the weighted, smothering air, the thick, breathless feeling that collected in huddled human pockets in corners and along hallways. As if he didn't notice the empty space that surrounded him even in the most crowded rooms, left untouched and untouchable by the complete strangers that were familiar with him and his story and left him buffered by his strangeness.

Daniel almost missed the comparative acceptance of the quiet guard who had stalked him since his arrival, missed the empty corridors, the facade of intimacy with just those few who had touched the hidden soul within him. They'd coaxed Daniel Jackson, blinking, back into the light, but now, the spotlight seemed too bright.

Jonas' simple questions had set off a domino effect of planning and activity: briefings with SG-1, where discussion floated around him like a cloud, muffling the voices into unintelligible mumblings, and hurried, uncomfortable sessions where the Ancient language that flowed so effortlessly through his mind was released in fits and starts that only seemed to confuse Jonas further. And his frustration – and Jonas's – had stolen his rest and gradually emptied him of the warmth and belonging that had begun to fill him.

The Tok'ra had brought their awkward intensity through the wormhole. Safe in Sam's lab, Daniel had greeted Sina by name before realizing that he'd never actually met her, starting an avalanche of inquiry and suspicion. Jack and Teal'c had shuffled closer, as if to guard him from exposure, as Sam had tried, again and again, to redirect the operatives' attention to the schematics of Anubis's ship. Their questions had eventually been stifled, but he'd felt their searing stares against his skin and had asked to be excused.

He'd ached with weariness but could not sleep, couldn't stop his dry, bloodshot eyes from searching tedious page after tedious page, and couldn't fight the desperate need to do something, to contribute in some way to this struggle, this upcoming battle with Anubis, a being who had already defeated him, even with all of his Ascended power.

It was the general's voice that had broken through his exhausted fugue last night, had shaken him from his mind's eye and returned him to the present with a startled jolt.

"Doctor Jackson – are all right, son?"

Kind. Kind words, kind eyes even in the midst of this crisis. Daniel had frowned at the man's sincerity, had shuffled through the papers on his – Jonas's – desk as if to search for a way to remove the lump from his throat to voice the apology that strained to get out. The firm hand on his shoulder had quieted him.

General Hammond had lowered himself to sit in the only empty chair, a smile creasing deeper lines around his eyes and a sigh easing the tense muscles of his shoulders into a droop. "I thought I might find you here."

Daniel nodded, still unable to speak, fingers smoothing the fine pages beneath his hands, pages covered with the straight, cluttered writing of the Ancients.

The general tilted his chin towards the scattered papers. "I've spoke with Mr. Quinn. He tells me that this language is beyond him."

"No, no," Daniel denied quickly, "it's me; I can't seem to explain … to teach him …"

One raised hand stopped his stuttering. "Daniel."

He swallowed his excuses. "No," Daniel smiled tightly. "He's not getting it."

It was the general's turn to sit, tongue-tied, obviously unsure how to go on. His gaze was steady, weighing, but didn't stab or pierce as others' had. A moment later a shadow of distress swept across his face, aging his features. And then, as smoke before a strong wind it cleared, leaving a resolute commander behind.

"I find myself amazed and appalled about what I'm going to say, what I'm going to demand of you – again – Doctor Jackson."

Daniel felt his eyebrows climb. "General?"

Hammond shook his head. "Here you are, miraculously returned to us, your memories stripped away and yet …" He huffed a wry laugh and placed both hands on his knees. "I need you, son. We need you."

"Of course." His answer was automatic, instinctive. Whatever this man asked of him, however he could help.

A real laugh bubbled up now, and the general's smile was bright and blazing. "You haven't really changed, have you? Colonel O'Neill said as much." Serenity slipped over them like a cloak and Hammond's humor sank into a quiet camaraderie. "We've always expected too much of you, young man, and you've never failed to deliver."

Scenes of carnage, lifeless eyes, and broken bodies rose up to scour Daniel's senses, but that firm grip sped his gaze outward again.

"Never," the general repeated confidently.

They needed him. And, above Jack's furious, scathing arguments against it, the general had called his superiors in Washington and had admitted to Daniel Jackson's return to the land of the corporeal. And, this morning, had announced it to the entire base.

And now the piercing stares weren't only from the Tok'ra. Every meeting, every briefing, he sensed it, felt their gazes, their questions and expectations as heavy weights against his spirit.

What was he to them now? Ghost? Phantom? Savior? Reminder of things better left buried? Or, even worse, one who had stormed heaven and had been found … wanting.

Daniel side-stepped the soldier who had stumbled to a halt in the corridor in front of him. He lowered his eyes, shaking hands deep in his pockets. He moved quickly, looking for safety, for a place beyond the scrutiny, away from whispered conversations and narrowed eyes and awkward avoidance of an accidental touch. _'Unclean, unclean,'_ his memory provided images of bandaged lepers warning the multitude of their approach.

"Doc! Hey, Daniel!"

The hand on his arm surprised him, turned him with startled eyes and hands raised to ward off the expected attack, but, instead, he stumbled forward into a warm embrace that crushed the air from his lungs.

"My God! I couldn't believe it when Siler caught us in the 'gate room and told us. It's – you're –" One hand ruffled through his short hair. "You're really back!"

Other hands slapped warmly against his shoulders, voices and laughter crowding around him, holding him tightly in their midst. Names leapt to his mind, faces grim beneath an alien sun, streaked with dirt, weapons held tightly in wary readiness. Ferretti surrounded by the laughing boys of Abydos. Coburn silent and steady at their back as they sought the Harcesis child. Griff, as gruff as his name, deadly in battle, unsmiling even as his eyes gleamed with something approaching relief. Penhall – wide-eyed and still wandering through the galaxy with the innocence of youth. The scent of another world hovering around them, SG-2 closed on him as comrades would greet a long lost friend.

"What the hell, Doc, did you piss off the glowy types like you used to do the colonel?"

"Or were you too skinny and they had to throw you back?"

"Hell, Major, now that the great Doctor Jackson is back, Anubis is toast!"

Daniel smiled and shook extended hands, shrugged off idle questions, and left the group outside the infirmary with easy promises of coffee or beer or time. Ferretti was the last to let go.

Their nudges and bumps, friendly teasing and taunting, their willingness to touch and crowd him close returned memories of other men and women, stalwart, strong, those who had fallen and those who still remained. A base full of comrades, a world full of strangers, all at risk now from one powerful enemy. Jack's worried scowl. Teal'c's hovering guardianship. Sam's intense focus. And the general's easily offered confidence.

Daniel raised his head. The holes in his memory, the fleeting fears of others as they regarded his resurrected form, the questions behind the Tok'ra's eyes – he could bear that weight. To take his place among them, to add in his humble contributions, to help save these people, to keep them from harm, well, he'd gladly bear the weight of the world.


	25. X is for Xenos

"X is for Xenos – Strangers"

by marzipan77

GEN

SG-1

The next installment in the Descension Fic series 'Renaissance' written for the Alphabet Challenge on Stargate Drabbles.

Summary: Is he ready to say good-bye to Arrom?

Feedback: C'mon, people, help me make it to the end!

"_Great perils have this beauty: that they bring to light the fraternity of __strangers__.__" Victor Hugo _

His fingers brushed against the brittle branches, remembering the rough feel of the bark, the dusky scent of the leaves as they crumpled beneath his feet, the way these simple sensations had grounded him, reminded him of his humanity, taught him, again, how to walk and stand and live within the confines of a body of flesh and blood. He'd tried so hard – fought so hard to shut away the memories, to silence the inner voices that called him by an unfamiliar name, so afraid to hear their frantic pleas and accusations. Daniel turned back into the cold wind, indifferent to the hurried military time-table. He stood, hands deep in the pockets of heavy, green fatigues, booted feet solid against the ground, eyes dry behind his glasses, and looked up at the Stargate.

He heard the men move in the chill air, blowing on chapped hands, weapons clanking, cloth rustling, muttered voices being carried off by the wind. They were watching him, waiting, but Daniel didn't give in to the impatience of their restlessness, the demands of their stares. He breathed deeply of the oddly scented air, filled his lungs with its familiarity, and let Arrom's inner voice whisper through his mind. He'd brought Arrom – the Naked One - home, and the lonely man's shattered fears and desperation had swirled through him once more before they faded, draining down Daniel's motionless body and away into the alien soil.

He heard Jack order the others away, urge them towards the village to begin the evacuation of the people through this … this Chappa'ai, this Circle of Woes, this Doorway to Heaven.

"Does the Ya-eger Manget Makaka still cause you pain, my friend?"

Daniel closed his eyes and smiled. "Shamda."

A warm presence at his side welcomed him, a gnarled hand on his shoulder, a gentle voice colored with good humor touched him and he turned his head.

The well-creased eyes twinkled in the morning light. "It seems I can no longer call you Arrom." Hands disappearing behind his back, Shamda nodded towards the Ancient device. "Have you taken up your journey, then?"

The warmth of dry robes against his frozen skin, the caring eyes of a grieving mother in a candlelit tent, unasked for comfort and concern humbled him again and Daniel blinked his eyes dry. "I no longer sit in the darkness, Shamda."

A shadow of memory darkened the old man's eyes for a moment before he straightened and his voice took on the semblance of the stern, cranky elder. "Good," he snapped. "And I hope you have been broken of this habit to stand outside in the cold, winter rain?"

Another presence, firm and steady at his back, shifted and Daniel didn't have to turn to see Jack cross his arms atop his weapon, dark eyes narrowed in a mock harshness that echoed Shamda's perfectly. "Huh. Yeah, I wish I could tell you that, Shamda, but sometimes Doctor Jackson here still doesn't know enough to come in out of the rain."

The elder's gaze flicked over Daniel's shoulder before settling again on his. "'Doctor Jackson'?"

"Daniel." He brought one hand to his chest, touching the memory of softness that the elder's daughter had once placed there, over his aching heart. Arrom's heart. So tightly shuttered and shut off from the pain and loss and terror that accompanied his stabs of memory until these strangers, these simple, welcoming people coaxed him back to life. "I'm Daniel," he repeated, believing.

"And so your journey continues," Shamda nodded gravely, "as do all of ours, whether we will it or not." He lifted his face as if scenting the wind. "And change comes with the morning, as it should."

Change. Arrom had feared it as cruel, callous fingers that had sought to wrench him from his sheltered life here, tearing away the shroud of nameless loneliness that he'd wrapped so firmly about his existence, intent on burying his future along with his past. Now Daniel knew that he'd once pursued change, had raced after it as if it could save his soul, as if it could distance him from his direst mistakes, confuse the regret and despair that constantly chased after him. He had changed, he admitted ruefully to himself. From cherished child to unwanted complication; from oblivious scholar to careful explorer; from husband to widower; and from empty shell, from Arrom, into Daniel Jackson – friend, teammate, brother and son.

"You know what they say." The tightness of Jack's voice drew Daniel's gaze to the deep-set brown eyes, shadowed by a frown and by the depth of his understanding. "'The only constant is change.'"

Shamda shifted closer behind him. "'No one knows the thickness of the grass on the other side of the hill unless one travels there.'"

Daniel's lips quirked into a smile. "'When one door closes, another opens.'"

He watched Jack refuse to grin. "'If you don't like the weather in Colorado, wait ten minutes.'"

Shaking his head, Daniel turned to face the path to the village, listening as Jack and Shamda fell into step behind him, discussing life and weather and lessons learned. His back to the wintry sun, Daniel considered the shadow stretching out before him, sliding over the frozen blades of grass, the scattered stones, visibly shortening as their journey continued. His gaze wandered across ancient monuments now crumbled, the bare bones of an Ancient civilization showing through the soil. The power of Vis Uban lay in the past, in the careful guardianship of the ages, hiding the Ancients' story within its stony mantle. Arrom had done the same for him – had sheltered him from the storms of memory, from the harsh winds of change and despair until Daniel Jackson could be guarded by more caring hands. Not the kind, gentle hands of strangers, but the strong, certain hands of friends.

The galaxy was bracing for battle, searching for a weapon to use against Anubis, scurrying to herd those at risk away from danger. Functioning on little sleep and snatched meals, cursory briefings and not enough information, cautious assistance from the Tok'ra and the worry of Teal'c's solo mission eating away at their trust in any possible victory. These friends had made demands on his heart, on his loyalty, on every drop of his sweat and ounce of his struggle. They forced him into shape, jealously claimed his spirit, so that he had no time for fear, or self-reproach, or the lure of memory. And here they were, he and Jack, strangers just days ago, now pacing slowly through an alien landscape, trading stories and making allies. It seemed so normal, so routine, and so foolish on the face of it that it was … comfortingly typical.

As the village came into view, Daniel smiled and let Arrom go, let him slide away to mingle with the laughing children and hurrying villagers, the shadows and stories of those who had given birth to him. "Thank you," he whispered, and lifted his face to the demands of the future.


	26. Y is for Yet

**A/N: "Yet" not "Yeti" although I tried really hard to come up with a story to go along with that idea. My goal is to post my "Z" fic before Friday if the powers that be cooperate, finally finishing this loooooong fic. **

"Y is for "Yet"

by marzipan77

GEN SG-1

The next installment in the Descension Fic series 'Renaissance' written for the Alphabet Challenge on Stargate Drabbles.

Summary: Something is missing.

Feedback: Thank you, thank you, thank you for your patience and great feedback!

The planning was done, the false tablet planted, Shamda and the villagers settled on a world Daniel didn't remember among other wanderers who made no claims of ownership on the land beneath their feet. And Daniel no longer fought the truth that his own wandering had brought him home.

He turned right at the tunnels' intersection and then stopped. Frowning, he lifted his head and brought both hands out of his pockets, scanning the empty hallway in both directions as if he could find a reason his restless feet had brought him here, in the small hours of morning, exhausted from chasing furtive dreams in the darkness. Again.

The empty corridor echoed his slow footsteps, the dimmed lights another reminder to his sluggish mind and heavy limbs that the outside world was dark and quiet. The door ahead stood open a few inches and Daniel watched as one hand rose to push it open. The room was filled with shadows: the lingering sensations of broad shoulders crowded together, the echoes of many voices humming just outside the range of hearing. The glow from one window drew him on and he moved forward slowly, silently, maneuvering past tangled cords and the legs of chairs that reached out to trip him, all leftover from the endless series of briefings that had woken memories of frustration and loss, and wounds physical and invisible that had been analyzed within this room, under the watchful eyes of a concerned general, with the help of his team.

Daniel slumped, his left shoulder against the glass, one knee bent, and the fingers of his right hand splayed against the clear, cool surface. One technician stood on the metal ramp below him, disturbing the display, and passed some kind of scientific device over one section of the Stargate as if he was a stage magician wielding a wand. But no doves or rabbits appeared, no colorful scarves or paper bouquets, and, after he'd walked away, the Ancient device still stood – immovable, unchanged with in its concrete prison.

On many worlds it was revered – a thing of divinity or superstition, touched only by gods and demons who knew the proper rituals to bring it to life. On others it was a lifeline connecting lonely peoples with those who could trade for food or medicine or allies against their enemies. To the Goa'uld it was a means of conquest and domination, and, at least once, a way of escape. But on Earth, it was a secret hidden from all but a few, buried in concrete beneath a mountain.

Daniel no longer doubted the bonds that held him to this thing; everything he'd read, every memory, words spoken directly and overheard revealed that that Stargate and he were intricately entwined. It dominated his life and directed his future, and, in a few hours, he'd walk through its ring and take up his truncated journey as if his year of absence, his year of death and ascension had never happened.

And yet…

His sigh steamed the window with fog, hiding the glyphs, the dead eyes of the chevrons, and the cold silver surface that mocked him with its silence. Daniel closed his eyes and rested his forehead against the glass. No wonder he retreated to this place again and again, contemplating the alien ring at the base of the mountain. Hadn't Jack's comment back on Vis Uban, back when Daniel could barely string any coherent memories together, told him that no one was surprised that this piece of technology was closer to Daniel's heart than any person could ever be? The Stargate demanded his mind, his life, nearly twenty-four hours in each of his days, but even the complexity of its circuitry and the mystery of its origins seemed simple in the face of Daniel's intricate and difficult connections with the human beings that surrounded him. His teammates. His friends. His family.

It was those connections that peppered his dreams with familiar aches and woke him to wander the empty hallways, searching for something that was still lost. Each face came, now, with its proper name, invoking warmth, trust, guilt, anger – a wealth of emotion, a jumble of memory, and a yearning to reach past the blurs and blanks that muffled his reactions to find the right hands to grasp, strong and firm, that would pull him all the way back. Back into that shared companionship, into the deep connection so that he could hear the unuttered words and effortlessly interpret the silences, the half-glances, the frowns and the fidgets. Daniel had been welcomed back, touched, held, grounded – and yet he still seemed to stand outside in the cold. Watching. Helplessly disconnected.

"Thought I'd find you here."

He didn't flinch, didn't turn in surprise or stumble away from his too telling pose against the glass. His heart didn't beat faster or his breath gasp in his throat. Somehow, he'd known that Jack was there. Daniel smiled, eyes still closed. Feet shuffled beside him, and, in his mind's eye, he saw the colonel lean one shoulder against the glass, his shadowed gaze taking in Daniel's vulnerable stance.

"You okay?"

Daniel turned his head, blinking even in the dim lighting, his forehead creasing in thought. A simple question, two words, spoken by one or the other again and again in their long, complex friendship. He knew the expected answer; his mouth even opened to parrot the response. But something almost hidden behind the man's strength, buried deep in the dark eyes, stopped him. A wariness; an uncertainty at odds with Jack O'Neill's fierce confidence.

"Jack?" There he stood, a friend, a leader, the one man, Daniel knew, who held tightly at the center of Daniel's existence while the storms roiled and calamities crashed around them. But it was as if the pane of glass beside him had slipped across his memories, an unbreakable, transparent shell that kept Daniel isolated, afraid to grab onto that connection.

"Daniel." Jack dropped his eyes to something bundled up in his long-fingered hands. "Listen," he hurried on, "Carter and Teal'c, they wanted to make a big deal out of this." He waved one hand, his gaze still lowered. "Wanted to do it up right with ceremonies and speeches and cake," Jack glanced up for a second, a spark of life cracking his careful facade, "and, while I admit, the suggestion of cake nearly had me, I thought, maybe … not."

Daniel's breathing stuttered as he realized what Jack was holding in his hands, what held the colonel's gaze and focused his attention. Drab green. Wrinkled and worn. Slightly frayed at cuffs and hem. Softened by age and handling, its patches dark circles, no longer gleaming new in the filtered light from the window. A jacket – _his_ jacket.

"I know it hasn't been enough time – that we're throwing you back into things way too fast," Jack kept going, obviously determined to shoulder through the awkwardness. "You don't remember enough, haven't had time to deal with this place, with us." Jack's chin came up, searching gaze resting now on Daniel's face. "Haven't had time to make any decisions." He shifted his weight and stood, a smile barely visible, and shook the BDU jacket out in his hands.

Daniel stood straight to mirror his position.

"I just want you to know that, for me, for us, the decision's already been made. And, even though you might not believe it, or trust it yet, you've always been a member of SG-1." Jack turned the familiar patch towards him, one crooked thumb rubbing against the silver threads. "And, even if you don't trust us completely – yet - we trust you."

Something let go within Daniel's chest, leaching warmth through his body to nestle deep within his soul. The hand he needed, the firm grasp that could pull him back the last few inches to fit comfortably within his own skin was right there in front of him. He thought he heard the crackling of glass. Daniel stretched out his hand.


	27. Z is for Zeroth

"Z is for Zeroth"

by marzipan77

GEN

SG-1

The last installment in the Descension Fic series 'Renaissance' written for the Alphabet Challenge on Stargate Drabbles.

Summary: It is the first bonds that are the strongest after all.

Feedback: What a journey – I am almost sad to let Daniel go. Thank you all for encouraging (prodding) me along the way.

_Zeroth – definition: preceding even the first._

"That's your son." Daniel's memories spun out like twisted thread. A hard-nosed colonel, dead eyes watching him silently through a thin screen of cigarette smoke. Uniforms, medals, mocking grins and deadly glares all leveled at the presupposing geek who dared to suggest that he had all the answers. He remembered his desperation – how his stomach clenched with fear, fear that they'd discard him as easily as his peers had, that he'd be thrown back out on the street with nothing but his books and his future broken in pieces at his feet. That this unbelievable discovery would be taken from him before he'd had a chance to study it, to understand it.

And then, in an instant, he'd stepped through the vertical pool and onto the sands of another world. Inside a pyramid, facing an alien with eyes that glowed and that had shattered his understanding of Earth's past as easily as he'd enslaved dark eyed natives who knew nothing of freedom. Energy weapons blazed trails of fire in the air, striking down newly found friends. And then he was confronting a man with nothing to live for - a man who would become his greatest friend. This man. Jack.

"Yeah."

The memories came easily now, not in bright, piercing shards disconnected from context. "Charlie, right? He's why I know you. You took that first mission to Abydos because you thought … it'd be suicide." Daniel stumbled over the last few words, frowning, unable to hide his embarrassment, his horror at so glibly re-opening the deep wounds in Jack's soul.

Jack flashed a grim smile. "Things change."

"Yeah, sorry," Daniel murmured, lowering his eyes and fidgeting with the zipper on his jacket. His mouth seemed filled with sand and dust as memories of Jack's pain and loss blanketed him, reminders of souls bared over too much alcohol, of silent trips to a spot on a lonely hillside under the tender branches of a white-barked birch. Charlie lay there, safe at last under the summer sun, under colorful sprays of spring flowers and deep layers of snow; eternally young, the last horrifying images of blood and death gradually giving way to the boy's bright smiles, boundless energy, and small hands wrapped tightly in his father's. Daniel remembered how, over the years, Jack's pinched, closely shuttered expression had relaxed into warm smiles and even, sometimes, laughter at the pull of his memories. And, he nodded to himself, how his friend's confidence, his offer of trust had allowed a long-haired scholar beneath the colonel's guard to share a grief and guilt that spanned worlds.

Before the SGC, before the team, before their missions to find allies and weapons and answers through the 'gate, before Oma or Shifu, the Tok'ra or the Replicators, before Sam or Teal'c or General Hammond – it had been the two of them. Daniel and Jack.

"You sure you're ready for this?"

Daniel heard the concern, the last murmur of doubt, and the slight pricking of uncertainty that sharpened the colonel's voice. He turned to face his friend's intense gaze, knowing even without a specific memory to draw on that Jack had been busy counting up all the ways the intricate plans and convoluted timetable of this mission could go horribly wrong. Revisiting the consequences of trusting a teammate who was perhaps able-bodied, but was far from in top form mentally. Who had been all too recently without memory of Jack's name.

Colonel Jack O'Neill had asked the same question long years ago.

'_Are you sure you're ready for this, Jackson?' _The helmet had sat heavily on his head, the unfamiliar weapon tight against his thigh. He remembered glancing up at the narrowed eyes of the colonel and then fixing his gaze on the wonder of the sparkling, rippling event horizon. Jack's words and Daniel's own fierce need to know had stiffened his spine and propelled him through the wormhole to Abydos. And they continued to do so every single time he set his feet on the metal ramp of the 'gate room afterward.

"Yeah, well." His acceptance on Jack's team – then and now – was a decision born of necessity. Long ago the military man had met him with scathing disregard and open spite, never believing that Daniel could make a contribution. Now it was Daniel's friend who knew his value, but who wished him safe and guarded, far from this risk. "Despite what you say I don't think you'd be doing this if it wasn't worth doing."

Jack's smile was dry and a little bitter. "Well you obviously don't remember everything. You never used to follow my lead." He sat heavily on the bench behind them and fiddled with the ties of his boot as if waiting for Daniel's response.

Never? Daniel felt the truth and the lie wrapped up in each other. "I didn't?" But he had – he'd always followed Jack, even when he rushed out in front of him to use his best weapons – words – to smooth their way.

The colonel flashed a dark, disappointed grin and turned towards the door.

"Hey." Daniel called him back, unsettled, reaching out for the connection that had brought him back to his life here, in this place, at this man's side. "Um, I may not remember everything, but, uh, I remember enough." He remembered arguments and debates, anger and biting sarcasm. He remembered care and comfort, strong arms and steady hands. He remembered unfailing leadership, courage, and integrity. He remembered protection and protecting, give and take, being willing to kill or to die side by side. He remembered the first face he looked for when waking in pain, and finding the shoulder he needed whenever he stumbled. He remembered hurt and doubt and resentment, but never, _never_ betrayal of the deep bonds and the profound trust at the heart of them.

He turned bright eyes towards his friend's. Daniel remembered.

Jack looked him over carefully and then his stern face relaxed into an open, blazing smile. "Good."

End.


End file.
